


On The Old Road

by Ravatta



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Grimdark, Horror, Illustrated, Lovecraftian, M/M, Madness, Masturbation, Older Characters, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Smoking, pov insanity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-18 21:18:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 39,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7331002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravatta/pseuds/Ravatta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Hamlet is the last stop for those who are running from their past.<br/>It's a place where the rejects end up, the soldiers too broken to fight, the penitent thieves, the mad scientists and scholars.<br/>And the first among them are Reynauld and Dismas: men consumed by their own sins, seeking redemption on the Old Road... Unwittingly discovering its secret.</p><p>A multi-chapter story about a group of unlucky adventurers, and the importance of companionship when you're fighting otherwordly monsters every day. Will have the occasional sex scene. See chapter notes for specific warnings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reynauld

_Four facing the Heart of Darkness. The last bastions against an ancient evil. We are the warriors. We are the flame._

 

1- Reynauld

The stagecoach smelled of mud and manure.  
It bobbed and swayed with every bump in the twisting old road.  
Two warriors sat across from the Heiress in uneasy silence, the dark forest a blur around them.  
The Crusader thumbed a rosary and muttered under his breath.  
The Highwayman cleaned his gun.  
And the Heiress watched.

Brigand's blood over the Highwayman's cloak, staining the dented steel of the Crusader's sword.  
They stumbled into town, one bleeding out, the other all but dragging him behind.  
The air in the hamlet smelled moldy, oppressive, and yet somehow familiar.  
The buildings were old and worn- as were their inhabitants.  
With the Sanitarium closed down and abandoned, the Crusader tore shreds from his already tattered flag, draped them around the Highwayman's bleeding side.  
«This should staunch the flow. Can you walk?»  
A nod.  
Together, they hobbled to the barracks, a low stone building with rows of military grade cots, empty torch holders on the walls.  
The Highwayman dropped on a bed, without even removing his boots, and drank deeply from a flask in his pocket.  
«Do you disapprove?» he taunted the knight, who stood by him, arms crossed.  
«I have my faith. I need nothing more.»  
«We all have ways to exorcise our demons.» the Highwayman put down the flask by the bedside, gritting his teeth in the effort to sit upright and extend a hand to the Crusader.  
«My name is Dismas.» he offered.  
«Reynauld.»  
An uneasy silence fell on them. The barracks were filthy, humid, an unwelcoming place.  
Still, they were exhausted, and one of them wounded.  
«I saw a church on the way into town. I'll go see if anyone is there.» With this, he was gone.  
As soon as he felt the bleeding stop, Dismas kicked off his boots and threw his coat on the bed, reaching out for a last swig before trying to sleep.  
The flask was gone.  
«Mother...»

The sound of wheels on the rocky road.  
News of the estate was spreading fast, and from the wagon climbed a strange bunch- a dark haired vestal, a dour arbalest, a houndsmaster and his beast, a giggling jester.  
That night, the barracks felt less lonely, though no less damp or dirty.  
The Jester hummed and played a tune on his lute, showing off strange tricks of hand to those who asked.  
In a corner, Reynauld and the Vestal knelt with their hands together, heads bowed.  
From his spot on the bed, Dismas thought he could see the torchlight grow brighter as they prayed.

The next day, they were sent out.  
Reynaud, Dismas, the Vestal Junia and the Jester, Pierrepont.  
Deep in the ruins, where no light ever reached, they had to rely on flickering torches to see more than a foot in front of their face. The flame cast strange shadows on the walls stained green with moisture.  
Sounds echoed in the distance: Chanting and screaming.  
They pressed on, in the enroaching darkness.  
The ruins had become a home to some sort of cult of the apocalypse, and the manor's bones were crawling with their enforcers and priestesses, armed with blades and dark magic.  
Skeletal creatures shambled in the distance, spiders and maggots crawled on the walls and ceiling around them. There was no mercy to be found in those darkened hallways.  
They could only press on.  
When they stumbled out, days later, they welcomed the sight of the dilapidated Hamlet.  
Reynauld carried Junia off to the chapel: her hands would not stop shaking.  
Pierrepont wandered off, and that night, Dismas found himself spending a long time staring at his reflection in a glass of whiskey.

It was the high pitched, eerily sensual singing of one of the cultist priestesses who broke the first one of them.  
Houndmaster Thaon's voice went hoarse from screaming, hands clawing at his head as if to get the images out- and when the incantation left his mind, he all but threw himself at the cultist brawlers.  
There wasn't much left of him after they were done.  
The surviving ones ran.  
They ran like madmen for safety, forefeiting gold, supplies, leaving behind the dark and the inhuman fighters and the whine of the dog as she was stabbed again and again- a scream that was almost human, deformed by the damp hallways.

One night in the barracks, which grew more trafficked by the day as new seeker heroes arrived, Dismas woke up to find Reynauld by his bedside- thumbing through his belongings with a quiet precision he'd never expected from a man his stature, and in full armor.  
The ensuing brawl quickly woke everyone else in the stone building.  
Dismas fought dirty, kicking dust in the Crusader's visor and trying to get his hands around his neck. But Reynauld had size and armor on his side, and with a couple of devastating blows, he had the Highwayman face down in the dirt.  
«Coward! Thief!» he sputtered.  
«you, of all people, dare judge me?» Reynauld's laugh was dark and without a hint of humor in it.  
A crowd was growing around them. Pierrepont joked about opening up bets.  
«How many, huh? How many have you shot and stabbed in cold blood for some meager gold, you bastard?»  
«Don't you dare-» Reynauld slammed him face first in the ground. The Highwayman was writhing, trying to get an arm underneath him to reach for the gun.  
«You're supposed to be a holy man! And yet you're stealing like a-»  
Dismas' head hit the ground again, blood spraying from his crooked nose. The pain was blinding.  
«Shut UP!»  
his hand gripped the knife's handle and he whirled, bucking with all his strenght to unbalance the knight. The blade gleamed in the darkness.  
His head hit the ground again. The Crusader was too heavy, and in close quarters, vastly superior.  
He swung again, missed again.  
Most of the barracks' inhabitants were watching now, and from outside they could hear voices.  
Dismas growled.  
«Get OFF of me, you-» trying to shove Reynauld off was pointless. But he did let go, a moment later- aware the fight had turned into a public humiliation.  
After everyone had gone back to their cots and snuffed the torch, Dismas took his coat and weapons and staggered out, soon followed by the knight.

The moonlight shone brighter than usual, behind the clouds. The air was freezing.  
«So, you wish to continue this where no one can interrupt?» the Highwayman's hand brushed against the old gun's handle.  
The Crusader spread his arms- scabbard empty, sword left behind in the barracks.  
«I wish to apologize.» Reynaud's voice was soft, almost drowned by the wind.  
«I'm listening.»  
Instead, there was only silence for a time.  
dust blew around their knees, the wind lifting the edges of Dismas' coat.  
«Come with me.» Reynaud gestured for him to follow, and out of a strange instinct, the Highwayman obeyed.  
The roads of the Hamlet were twisting and eerie, even in such a bright night.  
All but a few buildings were still standing, and even less were still inhabited. Those who still lived there had nowhere else to run.  
They came to a stop by the old church.  
The scent of incense came from inside its walls, and candlelight could be seen through the windows.  
«I... Have been coming here every week. I lock myself in the cloister, to pray.» Reynaud spoke in a low tone.  
«I find solace in my God's love. But... I can no longer control myself around others. My hands move on their own.»  
They stood by the church's large oak door for a long time, shivering in the cold.  
«I keep telling myself... That if I am to risk my life, I deserve compensation. That I won't die with nothing.» He took a long breath out. Then:  
«I can't get Thaon's screams out of my head.»  
That, the Highwayman could only agree with. «I wish i could say he died well.» he muttered.  
They stood in the dark, their breath condensing in the night air.  
«I'm sorry.» Reynaud finally said.  
Dismas nodded and walked off in silence.

More came with the stagecoach.  
A fresh group was sent out, leaving those who stayed to drink, gamble, visit the brothel.  
On the third week, the Sanitarium's single usable room was occupied: at the start of the fourth, Dismas waited outside the door for the Crusader's return.  
He was shaky, his forearms and neck bore signs of needles, his wrists of bindings.  
«Welcome back.» was all the Highwayman said.  
No one made it home that week.

They spoke about it in hushed tones, behind the barracks.  
Reynauld nervously thumbing his rosary - as he'd been doing with increased frequency after his time in the Sanitarium - and Dismas trying to light his old pipe, cursing when the match was snuffed out by the wind.  
«It could be us next week.» He tried to mask his uneasyness with irritation.  
«Perhaps. But i have faith. Our God did not abandon us. This i know.»  
«You've spending too much time with Junia. Aha!» the tobacco finally caught.  
«I wish. She has taken up drinking as of late. It worries me.»  
«You should give it a try sometime.»  
Reynaud leaned over the Highwayman, huddled together against the freezing night wind.  
«Spirits can offer me nothing more than my God-»  
«I don't even know why i offered.» Dismas waved a hand. Then:  
«Does your God forbid tobacco as well?»  
«... Not that i know of.»  
Dismas watched with mild interest as the Crusader lifted his visor just enough to press the pipe's stem to his lips and take a deep breath- followed by a fit of coughing.  
Soon they were both folded over, one coughing and sputtering, the other laughing.  
«This is... Foul! Ach, it burns my lungs!»  
«You're not supposed to just breathe it in like that! Here-» he took the pipe back and puffed it, rolling the smoke in his mouth. It scattered in the wind as he exhaled, smoke curling from his nostrils and the sides of his mouth, the burning tobacco a single point of light in the forest clearing.  
«Now you try. Don't breathe it in, hold it in your mouth. Savor it.» on the second try, he didn't cough, and licked his lips when he passed the pipe over. «I don't think i see the appeal of this.»  
«It grows on you.»  
They continued like that for some time, smoking together in silence.  
The hamlet, shrouded in darkness, was an almost pleasing sight: Reynauld's lips, curled around the pipe's stem, was a pleasing sight as well.  
When the knight passed over the pipe again, the Highwayman looked where his eyes would be, shadowed by the visor, their hands pressed close.  
Suddenly, Reynauld wrenched his whole body away, as if he'd been burned, and walked off in silence, leaving the Highwayman standing alone and confused.

After a few days, Dismas began to notice a pattern. He'd step out of the barracks for a smoke, and Reynauld would sort of slink behind him, only approaching when they were far enough to not be heard or seen.  
Although he'd stopped wearing full armor in the Hamlet, the helmet remained, making him impossible to read.  
After a particularily successful expedition, when they met in what had become their usual spot -the rocky forest clearing by the barracks- Reynauld was carrying two small cloth bags with him: his very own pipe and tobacco.  
They sat in silence, perched on top of a boulder and looking down at the twisting path that had let them there. The air was still that night, and the smoke from their pipes enterwined before fading.  
"Mesnage didn't come back from the expedition." Reynauld said after some time.  
"Which one was he again?" Dismas didn't socialize much, and with the constant influx of new adventurers, it was hard to keep track of who was who.  
"She. Blonde hair, tall... Always wore a big hat." Dismas grunted, took a drag of the pipe.  
"She left with Ver, Barristan and Lovett, right? I saw one of them earlier, in the Sanitarium." Ver, the Plague Doctor, had been dragged laughing and screaming behind the large oak door of the inhospitable building.  
It wasn't a pretty sight.

Facing the dark silhouette of the forest, they felt like the last line of defense against some ancient evil.  
An evil the world didn't even know existed.  
Dismas thought long and hard about how to phrase what to say next.  
"Why are you here?" was the best that came out.  
Reynauld puffed on the pipe, wisps of smoke coming out the sides of his mouth. He'd gotten better at this.  
"That's a dangerous question to ask."  
The Highwayman pressed a hand to the side of his gun, caressed the notches on the grip.  
"Everyone in this town is running from something." He holstered it and pulled on the pipe instead, eyes to the sky. "It's a last shot, so to speak."  
It was a long time before either of them said anything, and it was Reynauld who broke the silence.  
"I had a wife." He spoke too fast, as if trying to dredge out the words before their weight hit him.  
"In my hometown. I left to... seek out fame in the Holy War."  
His calloused hands were gripping the pipe's stem like a vice.  
"A plague swept the village while i was away. And by the time i returned, crows and maggots had already..."  
A choked sound, and then nothing, as if just speaking had taken something out of him.  
Unsure what to say, regretting even asking in the first place, Dismas extended a hand, tried to give the knight's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Instead, as soon as they touched, Reynauld jumped down from the boulder, his pipe hitting the ground.  
"Don't touch me!" he roared.  
Years of honed self-defense instinct guided Dismas' hand to his dirk. Regret seared him as he saw the man back away, fall in a defensive stance.  
"I'm sorry i brought it up" he wanted to say, but didn't even get to open his mouth before the Crusader stormed off towards the hamlet.  
For the rest of the night, Dismas smoked on in silence, Reynauld's own pipe safe in his pocket.


	2. Crypt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go very bad, very quickly.

Time passed fast in the Hamlet.  
Adventures were buried and replaced, each week marked by fresh faces drawn by the promise of gold and glory.  
Each with their own voice and personality and their own story to tell: yet, as time went on, their faces began to mix, their names to blur together.  
Ballard, Graon, Digby, Gael, Lucy, Fourneaux, Middleton... They came and they left, and still more came- to feed the pigs in the weald, or be dragged underwater by the merfolk.  
The Heiress didn't call them by name: they were classes to her.  
Crusader and Highwayman, Plague Doctor and Vestal, Man-at-Arms and Houndmaster, and with time, that's how they referred to each other as well.  
Forming connections became hard.  
But lonliness could crush them even faster than the horrors of the dungeons.  
Companionship, one way or the other, was the only way to stay sane in the Hamlet- in the long days spent waiting to know if you'd be the next to brave the estate.

When the Heiress had them called to the dilapidated mansion, it was like this: Crusader, Highwayman, Graverobber, Vestal.  
Reynauld and Dismas, Montbrai and Junia.  
Packs were laid out in front of them: Reynauld got a work order for his sword to be repaired before the expedition. Junia got a trinket from the nomad wagon in town, a strange wood carving.  
They set out the next morning.  
The Vestal was unique in that while her time in the dungeon had affected her- she had, after all, been on far more missions than the others - it hadn't broken her hopeful disposition. She sang as they headed out towards the ruins, a gentle sound in the autumn wind.  
Dismas felt eyes all over them. Fellow adventurers, the few townfolk and merchants, leaving their homes to see the accursed ones march to their doom.  
He shook the idea from his mind. Negative, negative.  
They would make it out alive.  
They would.  
«You're unquiet.» Junia stopped her singing and sped up her pace so she was walking by the Highwayman's side.  
She was a full head shorter than him- not a particularly tall man to begin with- and all of her was soft looking.  
«I haven't set foot outside of the Hamlet in some time. Our last expedition did not end well.»  
«You're still alive, aren't you? Treasure that. Our lord of Light rewards the brave.»  
The ruins were looming over them.  
«Reynauld?» he called out. The knight turned, still walking.  
«I found your pipe. Let's finish this soon, so we can have a smoke together.»  
He knew him well enough to tell he was smiling.

They ran out of food two days into the expedition.  
The torches didn't last much longer.  
The darkness was all-consuming.  
In the hallways they could hear each other's heavy breathing, every footstep amplified by the endless corridors.  
They relied on touch and smell and hearing to move. Each sound felt too loud, the ruins' ambience deafening in the dark.  
They all jumped when a looming figure blocked their path- a colossal iron maiden.  
«What was this place used for?» Montbrai spat out. «It's much too large for a mansion. It's more like a city.»  
«I'm not too sure.» That was Junia, her voice low.  
«See? The dents on this iron maiden... I saw another much the same last expedition. Same marks.» she caressed the metal.  
«It's as if... This place folded on itself. The same castle, spread out in time and space.»  
«Quit this nonsense.» the Highwayman spat out. «Let's just move.»  
He relied on his ears to tell if foes were approaching: but the eerie talk distracted him.  
Long enough not to hear the footsteps.  
Long enough not to see the cultists before it was too late.  
They scrambled backwards to dodge their attacks, clumsy stumbling in the dark.  
all of them but Montbrai: about to speak, her head turned towards Junia.  
By the time Reynauld managed to run by her side, a cultist brawler had his arm-mounted blades sunk deep in the graverobber's side.  
A sickening wet noise.  
He dislodged them with a grunt, and Montbrai sagged, fell to one knee. Then it was chaos. Despite their size, the brawlers were agile, lunging and pushing the adventurers back, trapping them between the wall and the colossal iron maiden.  
From the hallway, an eerie chant.  
The accolyte sang and swayed like a siren.  
Images flashed in Dismas' head.  
A wagon.  
His hand on the trigger.  
The broken window-

He shot her, point blank.  
relishing the blood on his face, foul as it was, and the ringing in his ears.  
Exposed to the brawlers, his leather coat protected him from a stab, and Reynauld made short work of one of the cultists, stepping over the fallen Accolyte. Red sword in the darkness.  
Montbrai had stumbled back on her feet, using the pickaxe to steady herself.  
«MOVE!» she shouted, lunged at the remaining brawler- embedding her pick in his skull before collapsing.  
Junia prayed franctically as she cast her healing spells, but it was too late- The Graverobber's corpse was slumped on the side, sprawled over her last kill.  
The stab had punctured her lung.  
It was too late.

They pressed on.

In the darkness, in the cold.  
Down spiraling staircases, along twisting hallways full of rubble and bones.  
About to break.  
Junia's hands were shaking. Reynauld mumbled to himself. Dismas tried to banish the images from his head- the gun, the blood, the abandoned wagon.

They pressed on.

It was a faint light at the end of the hallway.  
A hope for some respite from the shadows.  
Dancing blue flames.  
Then it was upon them. A towering skeletal figure, its cloak billowing despite the stale air, and when it opened its rotting coat to reveal its collection, time itself seemed to twist and pinch around the creature.  
Faces, trapped in the fleshy tendrils beneath the cloth: where its body should have been were dozens, hundreds of heads, screaming and squirming in wordless agony.  
It raised an arm, and three of the heads tore out of the "collection", floating by its side. The sound of flesh ripping filled the air.  
Dismas didn't know if the screams came from them, or from the heads.  
But even in the dark, they could recognize them.  
Junia's neck bled, her spine twisted like a tail, tears streaking down her cheeks. Dismas' gaunt face twisted in a scream of agony.  
The dark, Montbrai's death, and that horrible hallucination-  
It was too much for the Vestal.  
She dropped to her knees screaming, and the screams turned to fell laughter.  
Her head thrown back, eyes full of tears of dark hilarity.  
"He has my face- he has my... ahaha!» She laughed, and with some absurd strenght managed to shove Dismas and Reynaud aside, despite her much smaller frame, keeping them behind her.  
"No!» they called, trying to hold her back, but it was as if she'd been possessed, and there was no holding her back.  
She took blow after blow, and laughed as she did, even when her flesh was torn, even when the ghostly Highwayman ripped through her armor plating like paper.  
She laughed and laughed and her mace bashing against her own reflected, screaming face was a weak, pathetic sight.  
The bandit raised his gun, pressed its barrel against her throat.  
"There can be no hope in this hell...» Junia muttered, as if recalling something heard in a dram.  
Then she was folding over, her knees hitting the ground, and the face so similar to hers just kept screaming and screaming.  
In eerie silence, the Collector raised a hand, and Junia's corpse was lifted in the air.  
The air itself seemed to bend and pinch around the two of them, and the Collector's cloak billowed- bubbling and twisting and tearing in the form of the vestal's face, frozen in horror.  
Dismas' hands were shakig too much to fire his gun.  
But he would not retreat- not as his heart seemed about to explode or his mind to break.  
His face he has my face how does he-  
Then Reynaud was slashing at the disembodied heads, tearing them to shreds with his dented sword.  
Fighting like a beast.  
Exposed, the collector screeched, its flames burning brighter, skull bashing against the cage that trapped it.  
"These are just illusions! Stand your ground!»  
Dismas' hands, as it turned out, weren't shaking so much he couldn't hold his dirk.  
Couldn't plunge it as deep as it'd go in the bubbling mass of screaming faces.  
It cut as if through paper, and then the creature was gone, leaving only a bloodied bag on the ground where it once stood.

Junia's body was mangled beyond recognizion.  
The holy book she held so dear, tossed aside in her madness, was now drenched in blood, its pages unreadable.  
It was a selfish act, but they did try to bury her, as they hadn't tried with Montbrai.  
Junia had been one of them.  
They knew her voice, they'd prayed together and sung hymns in the dark of the barracks.  
But when they turned over her corpse over to find a bloodied crater where her face had been, they knew it was best to press on- before the full horror of the situation crushed them.

They walked for what felt like days before deciding it was safe to camp.  
In a room room among the colossal hallways, they huddled around the fire, stomach growling from hunger.  
A long time passed before either of them spoke.  
"I so wish i could say they will find solace in death." Dismas muttered.  
"That thing is not from this world. It is our duty to banish it." Reynaud was using the tip of his old sword to move the firewood around.  
"How can you sound so sure of yourself, after what we've seen?"  
"Our God watches over us."  
"For sun's sake, didn't you SEE what that monster had? One of those... things had MY FACE." Dismas snapped, holding his head in both hands as if it was about to fall into pieces.  
"I can't stop thinking about it. Maybe I was meant to die, like Junia, and become one with... That..." he was shaking, he couldn't stop shaking.  
Then, Reynaud's hands were on his shoulders, and he felt an immense force in that touch. And warmth.  
Life.  
"That thing is DEAD. You killed it." then, reflexively: "You may have defeated your own destiny today. Be proud of that." instead of across the fire, the crusader sat down by the highwayman's side.  
"We will not die here." he muttered.  
The fire burned bright.  
They broke a chair from the room they'd holed up in, made new torches with the remaining bandages.  
They blocked the doorways with stones and rubble.  
«I have good hearing. Those creatures will not surprise us.» Reynauld held his sword high. It was then that Dismas noticed.  
«Your hands are shaking.»  
They were. his words were stalwart but the Crusader's body was trembling.  
«You're scared.»  
«Anyone would be. I am not about to break, though. I have too much to live for.»  
«I wish I'd brought our pipes. If this is the last we'll ever spend together-» he didn't chase that thought.  
Normally, Reynauld jumped at contact- or he would after some time.  
Now, his hand arm was heavy around Dismas' shoulders.  
A burning point of contact. The highwayman moved without thinking, gambling all on that touch- his hand caressing the unarmored inside of the knight's thigh.  
Reynauld tensed, went still - but didn't remove his hand.  
«I figured.»  
«How clever of you.» Dismas didn't mean to tease, but it was hard not to.  
«You never visit the brothel. You- when we're smoking-» The Crusader's hand was a steel grip, almost to the point of pain. He took a heavy breath.  
«i see you watching. you like my mouth.» Dismas' hand crept up his inner thigh, but carefully- the knight's other hand was very close to his sword.  
«Is this why you don't like me touching you?»  
«My God forbids... Enjoying the touch of another man.»  
Dismas turned to face him, raised a hand to his visor.  
«So you enjoy it.»  
a grunt.  
«I do, too.»  
then the knight's hands were everywhere, fast and delicate- the hands of a seasoned kleptomaniac.  
One slid under the Highwayman's coat, the other scrambling to unbutton his shirt.  
Dismas straddled Reynauld, using his free hand to raise the visor- just so he could see his mouth, soft lips and white teet and the smallest sliver of red tongue- the other gently squeezing the Crusader's growing erection.  
His belt buckle was pulled and tossed to the side, and he bent his arms behind his back to help pulling his coat off.  
Reynauld's touch was greedy but inexperienced. He fumbled a bit before wrapping his hands around the bandit's cock, his nervous grip hard to the point of pain, roughly pulling the foreskin back with a thumb. Dismas gasped.  
His hands slipped under the edge of Reynauld's pants, finding him hard and dripping with precum. The knight bucked, almost throwing him off, overwhelmed by the sensation.  
«Calm down, calm down...» he bit the man's exposed lower lip, drawing blood, distracting him from the overwhelming sensation.  
They were both shaking, panting, rushing. Their movements out of pace. Dismas' scarred hands moving too slowly, Reynauld's large, warm ones squeezing and jerking too hard, and that was good too, they'd take anything to stave off the darkness.  
Then Reynauld all but kicked the Highwayman off of him.  
Dismas held his reflex to move away- and was glad he did.  
The crusader helped him to his feet, roughly pushed him against the damp rock wall. He was a dark shadow against the flames when he bent over to take Dismas' cock in his mouth.  
The sensation, the excessive suction he used, it was overwhelming. The bandit bit his lip hard not to come, taunting the other man instead.  
«You thought about this.» an affirmative hum, the vibration making his eyelids flutter.  
«You... Ah... Thought about this a lot. Is that why you spend so much time in the cloister... to-» then he was coming, it really had been too long.  
His hands scrambled around Reynauld's shoulders, a low groan escaping his lips. The Crusader coughed and pulled back, thick ropes of semen painting his mouth and lower lip. He was panting hard, franctically jerking himself, and then he was bucking his hips, his own seed splashing on the ground and on Dismas' boots.  
Then, it was as if nothing had happened- the Crusader tore himself off of the highwayman and got up, putting the flames between them, wiping himself in silence. His hand was already thumbing the rosary.  
Dismas thought it best not to speak at that time.  
He dressed back up, wrapped the scarf tight around his mouth and busied himself cleaning and reassembling his flintlock.

Somehow, they lived through the expedition.  
It had been a full week longer than planned - they were all assumed dead by then.  
They stumbled out of the crypt with blood on their clothes- their own, Junia's, Montbrai's, and dozens of cultists'. Their packs heavy with loot.  
No one approached them, or looked them in the eyes.  
They didn't speak to each other, or anyone, for a very long time.  
Dismas was in the bar a mere hour after reporting back, downing glass after glass of burning alcohol.  
His own gaunt reflection in the glass disturbed him.  
The memories disturbed him more.  
They'd fucked, like animals, with Junia's blood still on their clothes.  
And the image of her torn face and that of his own and the memory of Reynauld's eager mouth around his cock, they melted and mixed together horribly.  
So he drank when one came up, and then he drank some more.  
By dawn, he awoke to find himself on the ground, face-down in a pool of vomit.  
In the clearing behind the barracks.  
He was much too honest when drunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have anyone to help me with copy editing, and English isn't my first language so be merciful of my little mistakes. Also, i could not get the images to come out a decent size- either too small or too big, which is kind of a bummer.


	3. Ver

The clearing stayed empty for a long time. 

Reynauld never asked for his pipe back- never acknowledged Dismas at all, in the days that followed.  
He hardly spoke with anyone, and spent most of his time in the cloister.  
Sometimes, he'd get up in the middle of the night, and be gone until morning.  
The Highwayman did his best to put it out of his mind. He kept the pipes in the locker under his bed, together with his dirk and flintlock.  
And he tried to forget.

 

Now, death in the Estate was a regular occurrence.  
The Heiress was a fickle woman, and her word was the law.  
From time to time, she'd send a scouting party in the ruins, with their packs empty of supplies, no bandages for their wounds, no torches to light their path.  
Only one or two adventurers made it back, carrying a bounty of gold and heirlooms, and that seemed to please her.  
On rare occasions, instead of firing the maddened, broken survivors, she'd pay for their stress relief of choice, and they'd become regular members of the roster.  
Ver, the Plague Doctor, had been one such lucky soul: sent in the pitch dark Weald on a hopeless mission. Seeing her companions drop like flies.  
She returned alone.  
The week after, she spent wandering around the Hamlet, a laughing and sobbing wreck.  
From then onwards, she'd become a regular staple of the bar.

Dismas had been using his time after the expedition training in the guild- they had targets he could use to better his aim, sparring partners for his knifemanship- and heading straight to drink when he was done.  
That day, he was on edge- he'd missed more targets that he hit, and although his muscles ached, he'd barely landed a blow on the instructor.

Walking down the mud-coated stairs of the tavern, he spotted the Plague Doctor, on a stool by the counter.  
Her back hunched, mask lifted just enough to down glass after glass.  
Dismas slid on a stool nearby, ordered whatever the bartender had that was strong and dirt cheap.  
The raspy voice by his side almost made him jump.  
«So... What's it like, to be here for so long?»  
«are you talking to me?»  
Ver chuckled.  
«you see anyone else in this hole? Yes, i'm talking to you, dumbass.»  
Dismas stabbed his kife in the counter.  
The barman jumped in surprise, almost spilled the glass he was carrying. Ver didn't move an inch.  
«I'm not in the mood for such talk. Watch yourself.»  
The Plague Doctor's mouth, just barely exposed, curled in a grin.  
«I've been sent to die, in the dark, just so our employer could have some extra pocket cash. Your toothpick doesn't scare me.»  
She finished the glass. Whatever it was, it must've been strong- he could smell it from where he sat.  
«What in the world did you see down there, to make you like this?»  
Ver gestured for the barman to fill her glass, then spiked it with a vial from her belt.  
«You want some? The alcohol counteracts my blight venom. It can get you real high, real fast.»  
«I'll stick to... whatever's in here.»  
«Suit yourself.» She took a sip, and her whole body shook. A chuckle escaped her lips.  
«Whoo! That's some strong...»  
«What. Did you see. In the Weald.» Dismas was getting irritated.  
He wasn't one for idle chatter, he liked his silence, and that hunched, foul smelling little woman was ruining his evening. He dislodged the knife from the counter, but didn't holster it.  
«You ever... Heh... Ever heard of a Shambler?»  
Dismas shook his head.  
«Let me see... Aha. Look.» She produced a wooden carving from one of her belt pockets. It was eerily smooth, all twisting curves and lines, and seemed to pulsate as if alive.  
«This is the thing all my friends had to die for. In the dark, facing a creature I can't... I can't even begin to...»  
She finished the glass, holding on the trinket for dear life.  
«You'll never know what it's like. Being sent to fight what you know will be your end. For something that fits the palm of your hand...»  
She sighed.  
«We're expendable. Pigs to the slaughter.»  
Silence fell on them.  
Dismas finished his drink, holstered the knife, got up to leave.  
«Hey. Highwayman.» Ver called, still curled over the glass.  
«You're that Crusader's friend, right? Reynauld?»  
Friend. What an ill-suited word for such a place.  
«I know him. Why?»  
She looked at him for a long time, through the oily black visors in her mask. then, she waved her hand as if to dismiss him.  
«Nothing. Just go.»

The talk had left the Highwayman in a foul mood, and he wandered the Hamlet tipsy and irritated.  
At times he enjoyed these walks in the freezing wind, but that night the dilapidated buildings seemed to loom over him, and the stink of the road- of stray dogs and rats and decay- got to his nerves.  
He hated the silence.  
He missed the cities he'd lived in all his life- chaotic and messy and full of energy.  
The Hamlet was perpetually shrouded in darkness. It drizzled most of the time, and people walked with their head down.  
Although it was still better than spending hours or days lying in wait, ears on the road, for some poor bastard to rob.  
Some innocent to murder.  
He shook his head to clear out the thought.  
He'd fought hard to repress that memory.  
That place was getting to him.

In his wandering, he found himself on the main road, facing the Sanitarium.  
The lights of the treatment ward were on: they always were.  
And on the doorway was a familiar figure, arguing in feverish tone with the head nurse.  
The wind was blowing the wrong way, and only scraps of the conversation made it to the Highwayman's ears.  
«For the last time: we do not offer such treatments here.» The head nurse's voice was firm, her back straight.  
Reynauld was a total opposite: slightly hunched over to talk to her, fists clenching and unclenching. Muffled by his helmet, his words were lost.  
«You'd do better to ask somewhere else, then.»  
the Crusader was visibly agitated. One of the words that made it to Dismas was «please», almost screamed.  
The door slammed in his face.  
He banged on it with the hilt of his sword for a time, then lifted his helmet and spat on the wooden surface before storming off.  
Dismas thought it'd be wise not to be seen, and took the long way back to the barracks.

He still made it to bed before Reynauld, undressed and under the blanket by the time the door creaked open.  
In the dim moonlight from the windows, he caught a glimpse of him removing his armor, sliding it under the cot, all of it but the helmet.  
The Crusader spent a long time like that, hunched over on the bed, head in his hands.  
Then, his shoulders trembled as he broke into muffled sobs.  
The sound went on for a very long time.

 

The Heiress' cruel streak was a well-known fact to all of them. From refusing to address them by their names, to the suicide missions.  
But none of them could imagine the depth of her madness, until what happened to the new recruits.  
It was a regular embark- scout, gather all your packs can carry, report back. The first for two of them, Bounty Hunter Coliar and Occultist Lhuillier, and second for Vestal Maudit and Man-at-Arms Vane.  
They had plenty of torches,of food,of bandages.  
And they set out, chatting among themselves.

Relieved it wasn't their turn yet, the remaining heroes would have the week to hone their skills at the Guild, drink and play games at the bar. 

The night after an expedition set out always left everyone relieved and in good spirits.  
That time, it was a party.  
Not that they disliked the new recruits, or had planned on anything: they were just relieved it wasn't them, or someone they'd grown attached to by virtue of living together.  
The Barracks were full of chatter. Pierrepont the Jester, who seemed either unaffected by the horror or was just very good at hiding it, sang tunes for the other heroes, encouraging them to join in.  
Their new Hellion, a towering, muscular woman named L'ile, was sharing weapon tinkering tips to those who would listen, while drinking from a flask and telling raunchy jokes.  
Alcohol was passed: pipes were lit. The barracks were alive with laughter.  
At one point, Pierrepont's enthusiasm got even Dismas to try his hand at singing one of the only songs he knew: an off-key bar song about a nun and a horse that had half the barracks blushing red and the other half howling with laughter. Then it was Pierrepont's own turn, one-upping him with ease in both volume and vulgarit. Soon everyone wanted in, wanted to show off their singing prowess with all the high spirits of the really drunk.  
Dismas figured the bar's owner would be mighty upset the real party was over there, and that made him laugh too.  
He was laying on his cot, ankles crossed and arms behind his head, watching the inebriated L'ile dance in the middle of the room, her leather gown twirling as she did.  
It was then he noticed Reynauld sitting across from him, legs crossed and eyes fixed on the Hellion.  
When she stumbled back to grab more to drink, the knight's helmeted face turned to the Highwayman.  
Head swirling with alcohol, all Dismas could think to do was lower the scarf from his mouth and flash a faint smile at the Crusader.  
He tried not to feel hurt when he got up and left in the night.  
No one else noticed.  
And there was enough music and dancing and jokes to forget, for a time.

 

They were all quite hungover when the expedition returned.  
They'd never had an embark so short before.  
Vane, the Man-At-Arms, reported getting lost in the twisting hallways, and that had started a cascade. Blows they were sure would hit the mark missing at the last moment: the creatures' aim seeming heightened despite the torches burning bright.  
It had gotten easy for them to blame each other. Yell at each other. Soon, they were too stressed out and furious and wounded, and retreated before the misison was over- wasting the Heiress hundreds worth of supplies, but escaping with their lives and minds intact.  
Retreat, to fight another day.  
That had been Vane's philosophy, and there was no one in the barracks who didn't agree. They'd all done it, at some point.

That night, the four of them were called up to the Heiress' chambers.  
It was late- unusually so for a strategy meeting, or for their pay.  
The others went to sleep unaware.

And were woken up by desperate screams.


	4. Madness

The shouting and commotion were loud enough to rouse all of the barracks' inhabitants. Some reached for their weapons: but the sounds weren't those of a fight.  
It was the sound of madness.  
Out of the stone hut, into the main square, the sight before them was chilling.  
The four heroes who had returned from the mission had been stripped of their weapons and backpacks, and the Man-at-Arms was lacking his bulky armor, clutching his city guard insignia in one white knuckled hand.  
Burly men, the Heiress' personal escort, dragged Lhuillier and Maudit, the Occultist and Vestal: Coliar the Bounty Hunter and Vane the Man-at-Arms dragged their feet, but moved on towards the road.  
Behind him, Dismas heard a breathless «oh, no...»  
«Please! It's suicide!» that was Lhuillier's voice. His face was ashen, cheeks streaked with tears.  
the Heiress was standing behind them, by the old well, hidden in shadows.  
«Don't do this! We beg of you!»  
The guards dragged them on, where the wagon waited- not to take them back in town, the Highwayman suspected. It wasn't on the road, but rather the middle of the Hamlet's square: turned to the abandoned mansion, perched above the moor.  
The once beautiful house was now a horror-infested hole. Nobody had seen what lay inside of it: but the townsfolk whispered of conspiracies and tales of what had been of it since the old owner's demise.  
They spoke about how, in all the time the mansion stood there, nobody who adventured there ever returned:  
of the rumbling ground, of the distant cries.  
When asked about it, the Heiress just smiled.

Under the moon, they were dragged towards the wagon, begging and screaming.  
But when the time came to climb inside the carriage, they quieted down- perhaps to preserve an ounce of dignity in front of the growing crowd.  
Vane was the last to go in, turning and looking down at the gathered townsfolk and adventurers. Dismas couldn't name his expression.  
With the crack of the whip, the wagon moved on.  
All that was left was the sound of wind, hooves in the distance, the broken cackling of the Caretaker.

The Heiress turned and left as soon as the wagon did.  
The crowd in front of the Barracks took a longer time to head back in.  
No doubt where they would be, later that day- to pray, lose themselves in drinking, leave some poor whore bow-legged.  
What a pitiful group they were.

Dismas wandered off, letting his feet carry him around the Hamlet.  
Sounds of fighting from the gambling hall, someone being kicked out for cheating. Sound of whispers from the townsfolk, that stopped when he walked by.  
Funny how he'd been feared so long, and now commoners looked at him with pity in their eyes.  
Why, he might be the next, dragged wailing and screaming to a death so horrible, mere words couldn't describe it.  
He hated it.  
But more than anything, at that time, he felt a crushing lonliness he hadn't felt in a long time- since before walking the old road.

Heading for the clearing was a conscious choice. Smoking always calmed him down- it forced his breathing to an even pace, took his mind away from the horror, if only for a time.  
He hadn't expected to find Reynauld standing there.  
They looked at each other for a long time, in the freezing wind.  
Dismas' heart was hammering in his chest.  
Slowly, he reached into his pocket and retrieved an simple wooden pipe- a crest had been carved on it with a knife.  
«Here. I think this belongs to you.» After a moment, the Crusader crossed the distance between them and gently took the pipe from his hands, nodding. Then, he retrieved an item of his own: a small flask. Bent and battered as it was, Dismas recognized it immediately.  
«Thanks. I wasn't expecting to see this again.»  
Soon they fell in a tried routine- taking shelter under the large boulder, preparing the pipes; huddled to light the dry tobacco away from the wind, puffing to spread the heat. Dismas hadn't noticed how stress had built up in him until that faint glimmer of companionship.  
Reynauld leaned back against the boulder, eyes on the dark forest in front of them.  
«I hear you've been training hard.» he said. It took the Highwayman by surprise.  
«Yes... They have an archery range in the Guild. If I don't practice, I'll get rusty.»  
«I haven't had anyone to spar with lately. I fear my sword arm will grow weak.» his voice was mild, almost emotionless.  
«Perhaps we could spar together, one day. I'm not good at hand-to hand combat, but I can learn.»  
A nod.  
More silence.  
Then:  
«I missed you.» the Crusader sounded vulnerable, somehow.  
«I... I missed you too.»  
And just like that, their pipes forgotten, they clung to each other, like drowning men.  
Weeks of repressed stress and terror and lonliness and shame exploded in Dismas' chest and he bit his lip until he tasted metal, and was surprised by the intensity of it all.  
Reynauld, strong and proud as he was - when he spoke, his voice was shaky.  
«I tried to get cured. I- I thought i disrespected my Naida. I wonder... If I even loved her at all...» Dismas was feeling selfish- he didn't want to hear about Reynauld's lost love, he didn't want to support anyone else. Had it been his choice, he would've clung to the man's chest, armored as it was, until his hands stopped shaking and his breathing was calm once again. But the words came anyways.  
«I know you well enough to not doubt your devotion.»  
«But... These foul... Lusts...»  
«Are all I've ever known.» a tinge of irritation in Dismas' voice. The knight noticed, and didn't speak for a time. His arms were crossed tight over the Highwayman's back.  
«I'm sorry.»  
More silence.  
«I shouldn't have made any move. We were both scared.» Dismas leaned back so he could look into the knight's visor.  
«You're my friend. I don't want to ruin this.»  
Reynauld pulled him towards his chest again. The armor was cold, but his arms were warm and soft.  
«If anything... If this hellhole is our only way to find redemption... I'm glad i can face these hardships with you.»  
More than anything, Dismas felt like a weight had been lifted from him.  
When their breathing became even again, and he was sure neither would be humiliated, he pulled out of the embrace.  
«So...» he coughed. «Do you have a match? My pipe's snuffed out.»  
Reynauld chuckled.  
«Of course.»  
That night, they smoked and talked, huddled together under a boulder. Safe from the wind and the horrors of the estate.  
Safe.  
For a time.

There were no new recruits that week: the wagon was occupied.  
Following the Heiress' instructions, it waited outside the old mansion. It didn't have to wait long.  
They'd been fresh-faced adventurers just a week earlier:  
what occupied the wagon as it stopped in the Hamlet - three of them, their Occultist having fallen in the retreat- were gibbering, broken madmen. It was a frightful sight. The holy woman Maudit with her face streaked red where she scratched and clawed, as if to dig the horrors out of her head; Coliar had discarded his bounty hunter's helmet, and although his lips moved, no sound came from his torn vocal cords.  
And Vane, veteran of a thousand battles, just stared out into the night- a hollow shell of what had once been a man.  
They didn't stop to gather their belongings, or their discarded weapons. They didn't walk off the wagon at all. Just stared, waiting to be taken away.

It was then it dawned on the gathered adventurers:  
maybe these three bastards- maybe even Lhuillier, who'd been torn apart by whatever was inside that eldritch place- maybe they were the lucky ones.  
On that day, the Heiress left a clear message: there was no such thing as failing her, or wasting her time.  
They'd been volunteers, sent to an unspeakable doom, for losing maybe a few hundred gold's worth of supplies.  
Pierrepont, too curious for his own good, walked over to the wagon, stopping for a few words. When he returned, his shoulders were slumped, his breathing heavy, and he refused to repeat what he'd heard.

The barracks were silent that night. No idle chatter or card games to pass the time. Nothing but the sounds of sleep- of people turning in their beds. L'ile had passed out, glaive in one hand and a flask in the other. Ver was sharing her cot, the stink of whatever strange vapors she used heavy around them. The shuffling and whimpering and snoring were grating on his nerves, so after a time Dismas threw his coat on and left to wander the hamlet. Behind him, heavier footsteps followed. It was drizzling outside, and the air felt frigid.  
«Couldn't sleep?»  
«Not even if i tried. You?»  
Reynauld was wearing the heavy cloth shirt and leather pants that went under the armor, but the helmet was still there. He shivered in the night wind.  
«Not really. I can't get their voices out of my head.»  
They walked in silence, along the cobble road. The stagecoach was gone, its station empty, but it made good shelter. They sat on haybales and looked on towards the old road.  
«We could leave.» the Crusader turned to face him.  
«And how do you propose we do that? Wait on a fork in the road and rob the Caretaker of his horses?»  
Dismas' brow furrowed.  
«That's low.»  
«I'm sorry. I was just trying to...» but the moment had passed, and so had that line of thought. There was no point in leaving the Hamlet.  
They had nothing to return to.  
«Why are you here?» Reynauld asked then.  
«What?»  
«I told you my story, after all. About Naida.»

A flash of red.  
There was no scream. Just the sound of glass shattering.

«Redemption.» was all he could think to say.  
The rain was quickly turning from a drizzle into a storm, and thunder could be heard in the distance.  
The smell of wet dirt rose as puddles and torrents formed in the road. The air was heavy with humidity, sticking clothes to the skin. Reynauld had his arms and ankles crossed, back against a haybale and head to the sky. Dismas sat by his side, hunched over, listening to the sound of raindrops on the roof.  
«Please understand me.» He spoke slowly. «I don't think you could ever forgive me, if you knew.»  
Reynauld turned to face him, unscrutable under the helmet.  
«I know what bearing a weight can do to a man.»  
The Hamlet was a silhouette against the night sky. But everywhere, lit windows: not one place was closed off to adventurers in need.  
«You don't have to bear this weight alone.»

-The sound of glass shattering.  
Don't think, just shoot. Shoot and kill and take what you can, live another day before the cold claims you, before you're caught and people will come to see, they'll all come to see the Highwayman hang-

And they hadn't made a sound.  
Bled out under the snow.  
Just like that.

Dismas' hands were shaking. His throat felt dry, and when he tried to speak, all that came out was a choked noise.  
Reynauld finally noticed, and put a hand on the hay, near where the bandit's knee was. Almost touching, but not quite.  
«I shouldn't have brought it up. Come. Let's walk.»  
Dismas nodded and made a show of putting his coat back in order, buttoning it tightly to cover his stained undershirt and raising the fur-lined collar over his ears.

With the drizzle turning to a storm over the town, it wasn't good time for walking, and they ended up taking shelter in the first palce they found- the tavern.  
Maybe that had been Reynauld's intention all along.  
Maybe because of the rain, or what had happened earlier in the day, but the bar was full to the brim.  
It was a rafty place with a low ceiling. The bar proper had a decent selection of liquor, thanks to the Heiress' generosity: the upper floor, accessible through a narrow, twisting staircase, was shared between the brothel and gambling hall: the one above that had some rooms to rent.  
Normally, the tables were empty except for abandoned mugs and stains, but that night, loud talk filled the air, and patrons lined the stools. Adventurers mingled with the Hamlet's dark eyed residents, sharing tales of their victories to anyone who would listen, or better yet, offer a drink.  
Smoke from pipes and nasty, cheap cigars hung over their heads, mixing with the acrid smell of spilled alcohol, of people herded like animals.  
It was, all in all, an enjoyable atmosphere. Chaos is a good place to relax, at times.  
«Why'd you take me here? You don't drink.» Dismas had to raise his voice almost to the point of screaming to get himself heard.  
«I can handle this place's temptations. And you do like to drink.»  
«Maybe we could try our hand at gambling-» he started, before catching the eye of the bouncer, glaring at him from across the room.  
«...Or maybe not. Come, sit. I'll go get myself something.»  
On his way to the counter, his eye caught a couple running upstairs, hand in hand- one of the Vestals and a Graverobber, but he couldn't recall their names. No-one asked questions to those who rented a room, he'd heard, and it was a good place to try out more perverse pleasures.  
He hurried back to the table before his mind could travel further along that line.

Dismas had felt a tinge of envy on seeing the couple, however. He was never too good at resisting temptation, and Reynauld made for a pretty picture when he wasn't wearing full armor. His shirt left his arms exposed, not toned but large and strong and battle-scarred, and that was mighty distracting at times.  
They huddled together in a corner of the bar. The chairs were rickety and uncomfortable, and the table was covered in stains and bored knife-marks. Reynauld had a glass of water, while Dismas nursed some cheap whiskey.  
For a time, they just watched the bustle around the doorway. Who came down from the brothel-and-gambling hall looking dejected or with a big grin on their face: the occasional patron getting thrown out.  
It was a loud, foul-smelling and cramped place: but it was better than laying awake in the barracks, the sound of rain loud around them.  
The sound of screams echoing in their ears.  
What got to them, what really got to them, was the survivor's look when they were fired. Taken and broken and kicked out, and their eyes were like those of the dead.  
«I think the Heiress was trying to make a point.» Dismas spoke after taking a sip of the whiskey, scrunching his nose at the taste.  
«Some cities have gallows in the middle of the main square. As a warning for townsfolk to stay on the straight 'n narrow, and for footpads to keep away. That's what those poor souls are now.»  
«That doesn't make sense, though. This place needs as many hands as possible. We're dropping like flies.» Reynauld was thumbing through his rosary again, like he did when he was nervous.  
«It doesn't. They got to keep the trinkets she gave them too, some of them mighty expensive. I think...» Dismas looked around the bar, at the sunken faces of villagers and adventurers alike.  
«I think the Heiress is just insane. And we'll do best to never forget that.»  
The Crusader nodded, crossed his arms over his chest. He looked like a soldier on watch.  
«We're safe here.» the Highwayman said. Then: «want a drink?» Dismas raised the glass up to the man's visor. Reynauld leaned further back on the chair. «No.» he scratched his chin, under the helmet. «What's a footpad?»  
«Wha?»  
«You said it earlier.» The knight ordered more water for himself with a wide gesture.  
«You said that some towns have gallows to keep footpads away.»  
«That would be people like me- or the Brigands in the estate.» Dismas leaned forward as he explained. «That is, a highwayman proper is a mounted thief, who steals from wagons and stagecoaches. A footpad has no horse, is poor as dirt, and steals from people in the street.»  
Reynauld listened- unreadable, a statue.  
«I had no money for a horse, but there's better loot on stagecoaches, so that's what i did.»  
When it came, the question stunned him for a moment.  
«Did you murder, as well as steal?»

The flashes of red returned.  
And the room felt very quiet- very dark. Just him and Reynauld and the dark and that question.  
He thought: I don't want to talk about it.  
He thought: I don't want to think about it.  
He thought: I didn't mean to do it. It was an accident.  
It was an accident.  
The din of the bar drowned by his thundering heartbeat. On the outside, he kept control. Licked his dry lips, downed the glass. Shuddered at the taste.  
«Stagecoach guards. Sometimes they shoot first. And then it's you or them.»  
Reynauld was still, arms crossed, eyes hidden by the visor. Then, he leaned back on his chair, gave the slightest nod.  
«This, I can understand. You aren't to blame for defending yourself.»  
His tone wasn't too firm: as if he was trying to reassure himself, as well as Dismas.  
But for now, it was enough, and the moment passed, just like that.  
«How does this work?» Reynauld asked then, pointing to the flintlock that was always at the Highwayman's side. And he was all too happy to explain, and drink some more, and let the night flare out.  
And not think.  
For a time.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a week off from Old Road to rest up, since i'd been working on it every day for the past couple of months. Right after ending a chapter on a cliffhanger. Sorry!  
> Anyways, cliffhanger is resolved, tension is rising, and next chapter we sort-of meet my favorite character of the whole mess, as well as the last member of the fated four.  
> To specify: this fanfiction isn't based on an actual playthrough. If it were, there'd be a lot more Arbalests and Bounty Hunters.


	5. Misfire

 

«Occultist. Plague Doctor. Highwayman. Crusader.»  
Straight-backed as soldiers, facing the Heiress.  
In front of her, a large oak desk: on it, four packs: paper sheets with work orders for their weapons and armor- and a bizarre array of items they were to carry at all times.  
Strange trinkets: incense for the new Occultist, boots and a wodden skull for Ver. Reynauld got a seal and coat of arms, which he pinned proudly to his chest: for Dismas, instead, was a large cloth bag.  
He took it in his hands, weighting it. It was heavy, moist on the bottom, and he could see something dark through the opening. After he tied it to his belt, he found the tips of his gloves were stained.  
Just holding it a moment had made him feel sick, and yet strangely fascinated.  
«What's this thing?» he asked, lifting it again. It made a squishy wet sound as he did.  
«A sliver of another time and place.» was all the Heiress said, lopsided smile on her lips, and then they were dismissed.  
Scattering across town to get their weapons and armor worked on: the furnace would burn till dawn, when they'd depart.  
Getting their last things ready- given how each expedition could be the last, it was a ritual of sort. For Reynauld, it was the cloister: Ver had the bar, and, oddly, their Occultist headed right for the penance hall. Strange folk they were.

Dismas spent his time smoking in the clearing, thinking about that strange cloth bag and its contents.  
He was dying to open it.

That was the first expedition in the Cove for all of them, except for Ver. She'd grown almost used to the place. The fish-creatures were weak to her blighting bombs, and she had a mighty throwing arm. «We'll be outta here in no time.» She said as they set out, throwing a longing glance at the tavern. «Ah... I miss booze already.»

Their new Occultist was a tall and scholarly type, looking out of place, his silk robes unfitting of the hardships of adventuring. Not a callus on his hands, his beard not a hair out of place. Despite their surroundings turning from deep woods to a damp cavern, he moved with ease, silent as a ghost.  
He seemed comfortable in the silence, in the echoing ambient of droplets and distant shrieks of the merfolk: but when Ver started discussing her experiments, out of boredom more than anything, he grew visibly excited.  
«You're saying you... Drink this serum of yours? For fun?» Ver laughed at him.  
«Oh it can really make the mind reel, and the enemy crumble. I'll show you, first chance we get.»  
«Then, the blood to create it...?» She stopped to lift her skirt almost to the hips, and with the corner of his eye, Dismas noticed the Occultist blushing a dark red, a look which quickly turned to horror.  
«These are my babies. Look!» long, black leeches hung from the Plague Doctor's thigh like pieces of string, swelling as her own blood filled them. Leather tubes were connected to the end of each leech, wired in one of her belt pockets.  
«Efficient.» Was all the Occultist said, and fell in a slightly uneasy silence.

Their steps echoed in the damp cavern.  
It was a long walk. Both Reynauld and Dismas carried stacks of logs in their backpack: Ver had two shovels, and they all carried torches, cured with a certain wax so they would burn even in the damp air of the caverns.  
Those were at times as narrow as the Hamlet's roads: and at others, so large they couldn't see the ceiling. In the dark, holes in the ground, strange clams on the walls: strange sounds around them. They walked by a cliff in the darkness, their torches lighting an increasingly smooth ground leading to a drop that seemed infinite. From below, the sounds of a waterfall.

They were ambushed as they walked single file along the wall, avoiding the water-smoothed rock on the edge of the crater.  
It was the first time Dismas had ever seen the merfolk: hunched, foul smelling, deformed abominations. Three of them were armed with makeshift spears, forming a wall from side to side of the hallway: a fourth skittered around in the back, its hands contorting in strange gestures. The air was thick with the smell of rotten fish.  
Even to a first-timer, it would have been obvious: kill the one the others tried to protect.  
Dismas was a quick shot, but in the few seconds it took him to ready the flintlock, one of the merfolk had stabbed Ver with its hook, dragging her on her knees, down on the ground before she had time to grab her blight bombs. The spear left a deep gash in her side, tearing through her coat, and the creatures crowded around her. At that range, throwing a bomb would've hit her too, and mask or not, she would've been poisoned.  
Without a moment's hesitation, Reynauld planted his sword in the nape of one of the fishmen's neck, but its scaly skin was though, and when it dropped to the ground, gurgling as it bled out, it took the sword down with it.  
The skittering creature in the back row was mumbling some enchantment, or so it seemed, deformed by its inhuman throat.  
Dismas closed an eye, took aim for the creature's head, and pulled the trigger.  
Nothing happened.  
He tried again and again- the hammer came down, igniting no spark.  
«What are you waiting for? Shoot it!» Reynauld was still trying to dislodge his sword from the creature, and the others turned to him.  
It suddenly made sense- the cave was so moist, the gunpowder wouldn't light properly. He discarded the charge, tried again. Nothing.  
Then the merfolk were on Reynauld. Most of their stabs bounced off the armor, denting the metal, but one got a lucky hit under his armpit, tearing through the cloth shirt, and he howled with pain, dropping to one knee.  
Discarding his useless gun, Dismas jumped on the creature, slashing its neck with his blade, sinking it as far as it'd go, under the gills, soft and easier to tear.  
The small merfolk had begun a chant. Its voice like the lungs of a drowning man.  
Images filled Dismas' head.

The wagon.  
A flash of red.  
The creature knew no human language, but accused him with its song.  
The Highwayman dislodged the dirk from a merfolk's corpse, raised it to the smaller one, its body bloated and decorated with strange bone fragments and-  
of bloodied clothes, and his mom's hands. Three or four years old, maybe, an eye dangling from the socket. Snow was falling around them, snow painted red- and she sat with her head tilted back, blood foaming at the mouth, a silent accusation.

The bloodied bag at his side felt really heavy.

Then, Reynauld's blade sunk in the merfolk priest, in the space between the shoulderblades. The singing stopped, and so did the images.  
they were in the Cove. Surrounded by the stink of saltwater and dead creatures.  
Another place, another time.  
Reynauld offered him a hand up while the others recovered, walking past him in an uneasy silence.  
Dismas had a splitting headache. Like his brain was a pulsating, twisting entity, trying to break free. He had trouble walking upright, trouble focusing on the gun when he tried cleaning and reloading it. Its parts made no sense to him. That thing made no sense. He ran a hand on a piece of coral as they walked past it, and it scratched his glove, and he felt it on his skin, and instinctively he jumped back.  
Sweat was rolling down his forehead.  
The bag felt very, very heavy.  
«Something's wrong in this place.» He found himself muttering. The walls around them- rock smoothed by years of saltwater, bore strange carvings and words and then it wasn't stone he was walking on, it was fresh snow and his voice the wagon guards and they started shooting-  
«Dismas. Focus.» the Crusader's voice cut through the illusion. He was spacing out. A tilt of the head towards where the narrow corridor opened up to a cave, full of rotten wood and rubble- in it, a small gathering of merfolk, armed and sniffing the air like hound dogs. Behind them, a Cultist Acolyte murmured enchantments, kneeling on the ground.  
«Shoot her before she starts spellcasting.» Dismas nodded. He took the gunpowder, prepared it again. Short-started, but he didn't have time to clean it properly, and it would do, as long as he hit.  
They stepped into the cave, Dismas heading the group, gun pointed.  
She raised a hand, opened her mouth, and he fired.

The gun exploded in his hand.

Then, the beasts were upon them.  
The Highwayman dropped to the ground, screaming, and screamed some more as the Occultist's enchantment healed his hand- part of it.  
It wasn't like Junia's healing spells: this was wrong. Charred skin zipped shut, broke again. Blood poured down his arm.  
He heard the Occultist shout, heard Reynauld order him to get up and FIGHT and kill her, kill her now, but all he saw was the swaying form in front of him, now a priestess of the dark, now an innocent woman cradling a dead child, and the times and places were flickering and melting together and now he was in a snowy forest and now in a damp cave and everyone was screaming and fighting and dying and his hand was bleeding and his hands were bloodied  
-and then the Acolyte was upon him, gently touched his forehead with her lips.  
The torchlight faded.

Dismas' mind broke.

It was scraps and shreds from then on.

He stabbed and stabbed with his wounded hand, reeling and lost in the bloodshed until the Acolyte was nothing but a mess of flesh and blood and at least he didn't shoot her and IT WAS AN ACCIDENT, I DIDN'T KILL HER and everyone was looking at him, kneeling in the carnage and screaming to himself.

He felt his mouth moving, but didn't hear anything. The others walked with their back hunched. Wounded and weakened.  
When they were ambushed, he refused to move , having to be shoved aside, refused to fight, refused to be healed. His hand bled on. His body grew weak. Everyone had the woman's face now.

Somewhere else.  
Sometime else.

Reynauld tried to get him to eat. The others had lost patience. He spat food the knight's face.

The Occultist- he never bothered to learn his name, like the Heiress did, he was a doomed one after all- his healing felt like his body was being put back in place by something that didn't quite know how humans work. His clothes were damp with blood. Ver helped as much as he let her, but lost patience quickly.

Dismas fell to his knees and vomited saltwater and blood. When he blinked, the ground was clean, his body healthy.

The walls closed in.

Ver and Reynauld walking in front of him, speaking in hushed tones. He screamed something. The thing he was carrying felt like a lead weight and it was hard to walk.

Wooden carvings under his palm, wooden blockages on the road. They ripped them off by hand. Breathing was getting difficult. His heart pounded hard and he couldn't hear anything anymore. He dragged his feet when walking, and in battle he was always too far back to even use his knife.

It was an accident. It was an accident.

The walls were fleshy and pulsating and they were small little things in the bowels of a demon, and they would not find their redemption- just more blood and ashes and flesh and suffering, over and over forever.

The walls closed in.

Breathing was getting really hard now.

At one point, they huddled in the dark, lit a fire. He ate in silence, hunched over. Reynauld, at least, did his best to get him to calm down, wrapping one arm around his shoulder. Dismas tore it off of him, howling like a caged beast- and then broke in dark laugh at the memory of what had happened last time an expedition had gone that badly.  
«What, you think sucking my cock will make me feel better?» he spat out.  
the Crusader knocked him out with the hilt of the sword.

More walking. More fighting. More darkness.  
Dismas' head was swimming. He felt light. The voices spoke of atonement for his sins and he did think pressing on was going to be that atonement- there was no way he'd walk out alive, the thought just made him laugh.  
He laughed even as he killed them.  
Sunk the blade in Ver's neck, bashed the Occultist in with the broken gun, ripped off Reynauld's helmet and stabbed him in the face until he didn't look human anymore.  
Shaking, he retreated to the back, horrified by his own mind. The others fought on. Ignored him as best as they could.

Poor souls.

Another campfire. Reynauld knelt by his side, wrapped bandages around his still-bleeding hand.  
«In another life, you would've been a good soldier.» He spoke to no-one in particular, certainly not the broken Highwayman, and there was such a deep sadness in his voice, that for a moment it tore Dismas away from the images of snow and blood and regret, and it was all he could do not to break in tears and make everything worse. But then he was gone again, ebbing away, somewhere far far down where words could not reach him.

He opened the bag, at one point. They were taking a break, exhausted.  
Ver kept coughing, her own bombs having backfired, burning her lungs. Reynauld kept them going. Somehow, he found a center of focus in the chaos and pain- fighting on with renewed vigor.  
Dismas knelt and took the bag and opened it, lifting its contents to examine them.  
He thought the others were screaming, but his hysterical laughter covered the sound, and couldn't stop laughing at how comical his own face looked like, with his jaw torn off and his eyes blind and bulging and it was his, it was him, a perfect mirror to Junia, and he couldn't stop laughing and screaming and sobbing.

And somehow  
Sometime later

they made it to the surface.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work would probably update much faster if i didn't loathe editing. NUDGE NUDGE WINK WINK


	6. Remember

 

The walk back to the Hamlet was hazy.  
One moment, they were emerging from the salt-soaked Cove: the next, making their way through the thicket that surrounded the Hamlet. After an expedition, they were to immediately report to the Heiress, return the trinkets and receive their payment. Later, they'd go back to the barracks, and sleep was the only thought in Dismas' exhausted mind. He wanted to lie down and just fade out. His mind felt like a soaked sponge.   
Of course, the Heiress wouldn't have it. From her throne-like seat behind the oak desk, she watched the ragtag group of adventurers as she gathered the trinkets, takingparticular care of the one Dismas had been carrying on his belt. She had her eyes on the Highwayman, and it was such an intense, predatory look he had to break contact first, shivering. Something twisted in his mind.  
Still, she said nothing of his sorry condition. Instead she took to silently counting the leftover supplies from their packs and ticking the off of a checklist on the desk. then, she distributed the payment, one sack of gold coins each to spend in the town. Ver and the Occultist- his name, as it turns out, was Alhazred- were dismissed, and almost ran out of the building with their clinking bags in hand. Then, the Heiress took the Crusader and Highwayman aside. Dismas was shuddering, hunched over. He felt colder than ever, and just wanted to leave already, but somehow, he also didn't feel like moving- outside of the chaos of combat, in the safety of the Hamlet, his affliction felt more under control. He could almost think straight, focus on what was going on. Almost.  
«Crusader...Take him to the cloister.»  
The Heiress had Dismas' head-in-a-bag on her lap, absentmindedly caressing it as if it were a pet. Ared stain growing on her gown.  
«Your God has ways to help those in need. Show him how.» The Crusader nodded, and they were dismissed, the knight carrying both bags of gold for the time being as Dismas' hands were shaking too hard to be of use.  
Despite the wounds, barely healed with the Occultist's black magic, Reynauld walked with his back straight, a strange sort of grace. And, the Highwayman noticed, he kept pace with him- never let him lag behind, no matter how long it took him at times to put one foot in front of the other.

  
Dismas had never prayed in his life before, nor had he meditated. He'd only ever been in a church once, really.  
But Reynauld was a gentle instructor- his devotion to his God didn't feel out of place in that silent stone building that smelled of incense.   
The abbey had once been beautiful. The large doors of the Transept were open, and the corridor inside was lined with ornate wooden carvings, leading up to a stained glass rose that filtered the light. The pews were rather comfortable, designed to hold the position, so the devout could focus on prayer. There was the faint scent of incense and dust and oil from torches that hung in the air, and mostly- total silence.  
With its massive wooden doors, locked from the inside, its light and its quiet, the Abbey felt like the safest place in the Hamlet to be.   
Dismas felt a knot of tension inside him beginning to unravel.  
The cloister was empty. In the harsh weather, it was hard for anything to grow in the garden it surrounded. There was a tree, the same crooked sort that grew around the town, with its dark green leaves, but it was well-kept, its branches cut before they entangled. There were some benches surrounding it, but Reynauld chose to kneel in the sparse grass around its roots.  
With gentle hands, he guided the highwayman on his knees as well, hands clasped together. In his exhausted, sick confusion, he had to be handled almost like a child.

«Now. Relax your muscles as much as you can, and follow my lead.» with practiced care, Reynauld removed his armor, piling the iron plates on a side before turning to the highwayman and gesturing for him to remove his coat. They were sitting as if at a campfire, one facing the other. With gentle care, Reynauld took one of Dismas' hands and pulled off the glove, guiding it to the middle of his chest, then did the same. His hand was large, pale, and felt very warm.  
Then, the Crusader began to chant, a wordless hum that made his lungs and diaphram riverbrate. The sound came and went, ebbing like waves on the shore. There were words mixed in there, some prayer in Latin.  
Chanting in time with the Crusader, his breathing calmed down, took on an even pace. Through his fingers and the shirt, he could feel Reynauld's heart beating strong. Alive.  
After some time, the knight turned to face the tree, fingers enterwined, his breathing deep and heavy.   
«Now. Empty your mind. Let the thoughts wash over you.»  
He seemed to fall in a trance then- his body completely relaxed, both hands on his knees and head craned back, looking up towards the branches.  
It took Dismas a longer time to calm down.   
His mind flashed back to the horrors of the earlier days- those inside and outside of him.  
How could Reynauld even trust being around him like that? And yet here he was, his guard completely lowered.  
It was dark out, but the transept was lined with lit torches, light shining through his eyelids- even with his eyes squeezed shut, it wasn't dark in that place. It felt nice.  
Some time passed. He could hear Reynauld hum that strange prayer again, at times, and followed when he did. His mind was floating, slipping away. Away from the horrors of the Cove, of his own horrible actions. Away from the wounds, from his hand now covered in gnarled scars, away from his aching body.   
Away from all the eldritch horror, and from his fear.   
Away from the Hamlet.

And into the snow, at the fork of a nameless road.

Highway robberies are a lot about waiting. Less trafficked roads are also less protected, but sometimes you'd end up having to wait days for nothing to happen. And if you worked alone, you slept less, in case a night stagecoach passed by. Dismas only had his coat and a half-empty bottle of whisky to keep him warm on that stakeout, and nothing but the fork in the road to watch. He was dreadfully hungry, and the cold and boredom irritated him to no end.   
He jumped on his feet when, after what felt like years, he heard hooves on the road, wheels of a wagon. Loading the flintlock, he stepped in the middle of the path, blocking the wagon before it made it past the crossroads.  
Taking aim.  
The horses, towering things they were, huffed in the snow, neighed when the driver stopped them.  
«Stand and deliver!» the bandit called, knife at hand, gun pointed to the coach driver. With the corner of his eye, he saw movement- guards.  
A shot rang in the air, gunpowder filling his nostrils, and adrenaline flooded his veins. Everything was a blur from then on.   
Shoot the driver before he could run him over. Slice a guard's neck. Shoot and kill and stab and kill, before they took him, before he died. There was movement at the edge of his vision and he turned and shot, coat twirling around his legs. The glass of the coach shattered- no sound inside, no screams. Maybe a trick of the mind.  
Still, all was silent in the end. All but the ringing in his ears, his own heavy breathing.  
The snow fell around him as he approached the wagon. Thin snow that turned to mud in the ground, a cold slush. Tinted red by the coach guards' blood, oozing red under the door. He didn't open it. Just looked inside from the broken window.  
When he was a child, when he was still learning how to swipe purses and wallets, he was chased in a church by an angry storeowner.   
He'd hidden in the crowd of god-fearing people, and from the corner he'd crawled in he saw a beautiful statue. It was a woman holding a dying-or dead- man in her arms, a look of infinite sorrow and acceptance in her eyes.  
The woman in the coach looked much like that statue. White as marble, the only color the blood from her mouth, the gaping wound in her chest. And in her arms, limp like a doll, a boy no older than four. She must've been cradling him, reassuring him-  
the bullet went through them both, like through wet paper.  
He looked at them for a very long time, his breathing heavy. Numb to everything else.  
That was his great failure, but the gesture that haunted him for years after was another-  
he still robbed the coach in the end. He robbed it and left it behind like a tomb as he rode off on a stolen horse.  
he left them all to rot.

Dismas' eyes snapped open.   
He was still in the transept garden.   
Beside him, Reynauld was still as a statue.  
The Highwayman cleared his throat, snapping the crusader out of his trance. He turned to face him, unscrutable under the helmet.  
«I, huh... Have a confession to make.»  
«I'm no priest.»  
«You are a holy man. That's good enough for me.» Then: «Please.» His voice was weak. He realized those may have been the first coherent words out of his mouth in days, and it felt alien. But nobody else could hear his weakness: there was nobody but them, in that strange place.

So they sat next to each other, and Dismas started talking. He talked about the road. Of the woman and child he killed. And how he ran off to get so drunk he couldn't remember his name.   
The words came out in a tumble.  
Halfway through, his voice cracked. Reynauld's silence and expressionless helmet felt like he was talking to a statue, and it haunted him, but he had to get it out, force it out if he had to.  
«I can't stop thinking about them. Since i got here I-» he took a deep breath. His voice was shaking. It was hard to talk.  
«I can never take back my actions. I killed them, and didn't even have the decency to bury them...»  
And there it was.   
After years of festering inside, the truth was just this. His greatest failure fit in a single sentence.   
he felt hollow. Exhausted. Not different: not lighter. Just as if something had been taken from him and dumped out leaving just a gaping hole where it used to be.  
Reynauld reached over to grab his shoulders, squeezing them. Anchoring him.  
«I can't... Forgive you on their behalf. Nobody can.» His voice was firm. «But I believe this place is our test. We all have a great failure to exorcise, after all.»  
«You will find your redemption. But to do that, you need to live on.»  
Then, after some time:  
«And if you can't think of anything else, this abbey does have a penance hall.» Dismas let out a chuckle at the idea, then broke into nervous laughter. Then, it was tears. Suddenly he was crying like a child, reaching out for the Crusader, clinging to his shirt. The man didn't hold him, but didn't push him away either.   
Just let the Highwayman sob in his shirt until he was exhausted.

  
Reynauld took some time to clean up dead leaves around the base of the tree before he put his armor back on.  
With the tips of his fingers, he touched the cross on his chest, reciting a prayer in hushed Latin, then got up to leave. Dismas stopped him, holding him by the shoulder. The words surprised even him.  
«I'm sorry. I acted horribly, back there.»  
Reynauld's response sounded rehashed.  
«You weren't in control of your actions. We all falter, from time to time.»  
«Are you angry at me?»  
A long pause.  
«I was hurt by your actions. But I care about you. I know you. It's Ver and Alhazred you need to apologize to. They won't make an effort to understand.» Dismas nodded.   
«I will forgive you. But in time. I need to think. Meditate. And you need to get healed, and rest.»  
Another nod.  
«So... Tomorrow, at the clearing?» the Highwayman offered, weakly.  
«I fear it wouldn't be a good idea.»  
They parted ways like that, into the night of the Hamlet.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter finally names my favorite character of the whole work.   
> To be honest, when i started out the fic i thought i'd have a Hellion instead, and that's why i didn't name Alhazred until Dismas' emotional breakdown was over. That's how fanfiction is sometimes, i guess. You start out tinking you'll write a fierce warrior woman and end up with a wimpy Arab with a nice moustache instead.  
> Also, comments in general are very much appreciated.


	7. Dismas

 

_It took a week of daily prodding, ointments, and tinctures before Dismas' hand was fully healed, and even then it was covered in thick scars, their growth accelerated by whatever the Sanitarium nurses pumped in his veins. Fresh out of the warty hands of the nurses, all of his pay for the expedition went into buying a new flintlock gun._

_Having alienated the only people who knew him, for the time being, Dismas was alone, and all his usual stress relief activities were barred to him: drinking, gambling- he still wasn't allowed in the hall- smoking, he had no money for any of that, and the brothel had no male prostitutes he could seduce a freebie out of._

 

 

_The first day out of the Sanitarium was spent pacing around town, irritated and anxious._

_Due to his breakdown in the Cove, he'd almost cost the Heiress greatly: and couldn't afford to draw her ire towards him anymore. He had to lay low for a time, be a model citizen, and look anything but someone who was prone to bouts of insanity._

_Firstly, he decided to do good on Reynauld's advice to apologize to his teammates._

_Alhazred the Occultist was the easiest to find:_

_As it turns out, he was a regular Brothel goer, having become infatuated with one of the prostitutes. Dismas cornered him as he left, walking with a skip in his step and a big grin on his face._

_«Wait. Occultist.» The man stopped and turned, eyebrows raised. The words caught in the Highwayman's throat: this was harder than he thought._

_«I wish to... Apologize. For my behavior in our last expedition.»_

_There was a strange sadness in the Arab's eyes as he listened on in silence._

_«...Why are you looking at me like that?»_

_«I heard you say things that were... Somewhat troubling.» He spoke slowly, drumming his fingertips together. He kept his distance but didn't avoid the Highwayman's gaze, a polite smile on his lips. «But I do forgive you, if that's what you're worried about.» with this, he bowed._

_Dismas noticed he tended to hold his hands forward, fingers curled, as if he was always carrying his skull-with-candle, or maybe as a blessing of some sort. Occultists were strange creatures._

_«Now i must go. I had a lovely evening with my lady, and I don't wish to taint it by dwelling on past misadventures.» and with that, he was gone, his robe fluttering behind him._

_The affection and happiness in his voice left the Highwayman feeling a sudden pang of loneliness._

_Next, he looked for Ver. She wasn't at the bar: nor was she in the rental rooms, and he assumed, the gambling hall as well. He waited some time with an excuse. Then, he saw her come down the stairs from the Brothel- hand with hand with a lumbering, armored man, bearing the clear signs of leprosy. She gave him a playful slap on the ass as they left, and Dismas was on his way to leave before she spotted him._

_«Aha! Saw you peeking.» She was audibly drunk._

_He was caught off guard by her cheerful tone._

_«I huh. Came to apologize. For last week's expedition.» he looked in the black, oily visor of her bird mask and felt unnerved by how little of her he could see._

_«Oh. That? Well.» it took her some time to put her thoughts in order._

_«If you think something so small would get to me on an emotional level, you've completely misunderstood my character. I've seen much worse breakdowns in my time, and i suspect i will see worse still.» They descended the tavern stairs together._

_«You are the first to apologize to me, though. Mostly because the others are all dead of a pitiful death. So, appreciate it.»_

_She gave him a pat on the back, turned to leave, stopped._

_«Say... I am interested in something you said.» Dismas listened on. He barely remembered what he'd done during the expedition._

_«You hinted about certain... Happenings. Between you and Reynauld. He knocked you out before you could speak, though.» she chuckled. Dismas felt his face grow hot._

_«Did you know he spent days trying to get the Sanitarium to cure him of his «affliction» for that? And when they refused he asked me. Now, i like men and women alike, but he kept repeating it's a sickness he wants cured. He stopped asking lately, thought.»_

_It was one thing hearing Reynauld mention it, another to hear how desperate he'd been. He was a holy man, after all._

_From his point of view, he was tainted. He hadn't brought it up again, but it probably haunted him still._

_Dismas let a couple of days pass before visiting the cloister again. He had no money to drink or play or anything the like, and the church had made him feel oddly safe. Clean._

_Besides, it was rare not to find the Crusader there._

_On the first day, they just sat next to each other, meditating in silence._

_The next, Reynauld arrived after the highwayman, and gave him a pat on the back, seeing him already praying._

_On the day the next expedition was set to leave, Dismas stopped him before he knelt on the pew and asked for help with breathing exercises._

_They chanted together, breathing and heartbeat synced perfectly, then knelt one next to the other in silence, for hours._

_Dismas wondered what the Crusader prayed for._

_He, mostly he prayed for forgiveness. If there was a God, in his mind, he had the dead woman's face. Like the statue he saw as a child._

_In his mind, he sought redemption. He didn't shy away from the memory- drank its every detail rather._

_He didn't regret being a thief, and a rogue. That was what life made of him._

_But forgetting them was unfair._

_They deserved better._

_He didn't know any prayers, so he mostly sat and meditated as best as he could. There were no more revelations, but he did feel a little lighter when he left the cloister. Besides, sharing that silent companionship with Reynauld kept him grounded. The knight was a silent, stoic man, and never spoke when in the presence of his God. But over time, he grew more comfortable, occasionally giving the Highwayman an affectionate pat on the back as he left. Small gestures._

_There were, after all, some things time could fix._

_The next expedition departed. It would be another long one: a new Man-At-Arms would be going, as well as Pierrepont the Jester, Ver's Leper companion with his titanic broken sword, and L'ile the Hellion. They made for a fearsome sight as they left town, armed and dangerous. For once, there was little doubt as of their safe return, even if the expedition would be long._

_Dismas' hand healed, and in the next wagon's load of supplies and hopeful warriors, was a new flintlock, one he vowed to take better care of in the future. It was heavier than the old one, though, and sat differently in his hand. He found it was harder to take proper aim, and it took a longer time to load._

_With this in mind, he began practicing at the Guild again. The archery range wasn't built with gunmen in mind, but it worked well enough, and the targets being farther away was good practice._

_He had to train his hand to the greater weight, adjust his aim and speed. Afternoons were a sequence of shooting and reloading, until his arms ached and his fingers were black with soot, and then he'd look for a sparring partner in the Guild masters. He practiced dodging and lunging and hitting moving targets, and only stopped when his body was too sore. Then, he'd go to the cloister._

_That was life, for a time. His body steadily grew stronger. He never had free time to practice, in the past- it was always alternating between long hours waiting on crossroads and the scramble to find something to eat, someplace to sleep. Now, although the need to drink and smoke always gnawed at the back of his head, and his sleep was disturbed by nightmares, he was becoming something he never thought he'd be- a warrior._

_Reynauld would've said they were all warriors of the Light._

_And he remembered the words in the Heiress' hoarse whisper: "We are the flame"._

_Somehow, those words filled him with dread._

_The Guild never really closed. There was nothing to steal, save for the instructors' knowledge, and that left when they did, after sundown. Dismas was still practicing lunges and knife throwing in the dimming sunlight when he heard the door open and a familiar sound of metal and chainmail._

_"I thought nobody stayed this late." Reynauld leaned on the wall, arms crossed over his chest. Dismas continued doing his lunges._

_"I don't have much else to do." He felt strangely self-conscious. It was one thing to be observed by a war master, but the Crusader had led armies in his time._

_"Well, these exercises are good for the muscles, but not for the reflexes. Come. Let's spar together." the knight said, walking away from the wall and into the adjacent room._

_He walked around the square room, lighting the torches. The stone room was bathed in a red glow, like the ruins around the estate. In the middle were some tattered mats, almost covering the entire room._

_" Strip." Reynauld instructed, unclasping his own armor as he did._

_His heart beating just a trifle faster, Dismas obeyed. He hadn't really had a sparring match in a long time, and the prospect was exciting. He took off his coat and shirt, bitter with the stench of sweat, and threw them aside, then kicked his boots off, stepping on the mat in only his pants and stained undershirt._

_Reynauld wore leather pants, to protect against the armor plates, and a thick wool undershirt._

_They stepped on the mat, walking on its bumpy, damp surface._

_"Which do you prefer? Swordfighting? Or brute force?"_

_"Frankly, I just got out of the sanitarium, and am not eager to return there. Let's just wrestle." Reynauld nodded._

_"I won't pull any punches."_

_"I'd resent you if you did."_

_Then he was upon him, a solid wall of muscle. This was a man used to wearing full body armor at all times: without it, he was terrifying in his speed._

_Still, Dismas was used to fighting disadvantaged. He ducked the first blow, tore his body to the side to dodge the second, planting a foot in the mat to keep his balance. Without missing a beat, Reynauld tried to elbow him in the head, and he dodged that too, lunging forward and punching the knight's stomach twice in quick succession._

_A bold move, and now he was in the knight's range, and he was not merciful. He kneeled, dodged a blow to the side of the head, getting the full brunt of Reynauld's second hit to the solar plexus. It was strong enough to throw him on his back._

_Dismas sprung back to his feet in time to avoid being stomped with all the crusader's weight, sweeping him in the back of the knee so he'd go down instead. Unbalanced by the lack of armor, he did, and he was slower to get back up- slow enough the Highwayman had time to straddle his chest, raining blows on his face and shoulders._

_At close range, he had the advantage, as long as he didn't let Reynauld turn the tables on him. The crusader swung with all his upper body, as if he was wielding the sword even then, and even if Dismas managed to block the blow with his forearm, it took the wind out of him. He was hit again and again, and suddenly he was being wrenched off with a buck of the hips, and stumbled back to regain his balance. His mistake was trying to tackle the knight head-on- Reynauld put his head in a sleeper hold and threw him on the mat, and then he was on him, and first blood was his- a spray of red from Dismas' nose when he moved right as the knight went for a blow to the side of the head._

_"I didn't mean to-" Reynauld began, and using the element of surprise, Dismas tried the same move he did before- bucking him off his body with his hips. His body was built for speed and agility however, not brute force, and his knees buckled under the effort, Reynauld's weight knocking the wind out of him and crushing him against the mat._

_This time, the knight went for his neck, wrapping a large hand around his windpipe and slowly beginning to squeeze._

_A gasp escaped Dismas' mouth as he felt his lungs burning. The room felt warm and his head was swimming, and his attempts to hit the crusader or push him off were pathetic. He felt disconnected from his body. Everything felt fuzzy, from his legs to his fingers. And when he was straddling the boundary, Reynauld let go of him, sat back on his haunches so the weight was mostly pulled off of Dismas' stomach, resting on his lower body instead._

_The highwayman took big gulps of air, clutching his sore throat. The room was filled with the sound of his heavy breathing, the stink of sweat running down their bodies, drenching their clothes._

_"If i was trying to kill you, you'd be dead now." There was a hint of amusement in the Crusader's voice._

_"If i was trying to kill you-" Dismas coughed. "I'd have shot you before you got this close."_

_Reynauld chuckled, then moved closer, pressing a hand to the highwayman's chin, the other to the side of his head. "Like this. If you want to trap someone, even someone stronger than you. Try this." He leaned backward, twisted to press a hand on the side of the bandit's knee, mimicking a twist of the leg. "Now, if you want to really hurt someone, you can pinch this part... It doesn't matter if you're smaller, if you go for the joints."_

 

_Reynauld's body was warm and heavy and gave no signs of wanting to move. And for what mattered, that sparring session was the most contact he'd had with someone in a long time, and the Highwayman's body was reacting with eagerness. All the more so as the knight was twisting and turning to show him the weaker points of a body, the full weight of his muscular mass pressing down on the Dismas's crotch._

_"I think we should go now. That was certainly a good sparring session and I wouldn't-" he tried to get the knight to move, but it was too late, he'd already noticed, freezing mid-movement. Dismas fell in an embarrassed silence._

_"...Sorry. Can't help it." he mumbled. Reynauld's face was inscrutable under the visor. Then, as if to test something, he gently twisted his hips- thighs trembling a little with the strain. Dismas gasped, despite himself. The mix of pressure, pain, and tension around his dick was incredible._

_Putting his arms behind his back for balance, Reynauld carefully slid his hips forward and back, simultaneously rubbing Dismas' erection against his crotch and showing his own, bulging from the leather pants. He moved with careful, calculated gestures- not the natural fury of the way he fought, or the despair the last time they'd been this close to each other. He was focused entirely on his own body._

_His slow gyrating, arms behind back so his chest was pushed out, his strong thighs trembling with tension, it was quite the sight. Moreso, his helmet was the only part of his clothes not sticking to his body with sweat, clinging to tense muscles._

_He knew touching him could break the spell, but Dismas couldn't resist, taking a hold of the knight's hips and guiding him, back and forth, back and forth._

_"... Feels good?" he panted, and the crusader nodded. "I-it does." His movements sped up and his hips trembled._

_"That'll... Feel better if we're not wearing clothes." It surprised him how fast the knight reacted to the idea, breaking the contact only to slide his leather pants to his ankles- torrents of sweat were running down his legs- and help the highwayman out of his own._

_Reynauld resumed his place, this time all his weight on Dismas' hips. The pressure was incredible, as well as the sight. In the dimming torchlight, Reynauld was almost a shadow, backlit by the flames. Every muscle straining, coated in a slick layer of sweat, cock jutting out and twitching. All of him was hairy, from the trail running from his chest to his pubes, to the pale inner thighs. Dismas' body was almost a perfect contrast- gaunt, with a boxer's tense muscles, and sparse hair. He'd never thought about it but he guessed that, almost in his forties, he had to be quite older than the Crusader. Or they were the same age, and he just wore it badly, ruined by a harsh life._

_Reynauld had both hands on Dismas' chest now, pressing and fondling him like a woman, grinding down hard and shuddering at the sensation. Sweat ran between their bodies, down to the knees, and Dismas could tell that much wasn't enough for the knight, not by a long shot. He rose up on his knees, raising his visor just enough to spit on his hand and Dismas' cock, straddling him and pressing it against his ass. It slipped the first few times, and the crusader grew visibly tense. Dismas put one hand on his hip to steady him, the other on his own cock, guiding the larger man down, inch by inch, watching him bite his lower lip in concentration. He winced at times, but not once stopped, and when his full weight was back on the Highwayman's body, they were both panting heavily, the stink of sweat thick in the air._

_"Are you ok?"_

_"I'm fine. Now shut up." Dismas obeyed- his mind going blank when the crusader started moving his hips again, slower this time, with more effort. He could see him gritting his teeth, feel his arms around his shoulders, but everything else faded out, washed out by that mix of pleasure and tension and weight on his hips._

_His senses were all filled with Reynauld's presence, his smell, his heavy breathing and pained grunts, the burning flame at their point of contact. Reynauld was tight to the point of discomfort for both of them- but neither was willing to stop and adjust, taken by a sort of trance. Dismas took the knight's cock in both hands, pulling in time with his movement, and after some moments they found a good pace, moving and almost breathing in unison. Reynauld's pained sounds mixed with gasps and deep labored breaths, and his hands were everywhere, clinging to the Highwayman for dear life, not giving him a chance to move when the pressure got too much and he clung to him and bucked and came. The knight followed some time after, leaning back and panting under his careful ministrations, coating his own chest with ejaculate before rolling off on the mat._

_Maybe it was the exhaustion and the pain, but this time, Reynauld kept calm, laying on his side with a hand on the Highwayman's chest. He drew lines on his skin, followed the roadmap of old scars, caressed the side of his crooked nose, where the blood was dried and flaking. Dismas took this chance to look at him, for once. He was large, with a wide chest and strong arms and legs, but the muscles weren't very defined- he was a man who'd never suffered hunger in his life. The few scars he did have- other than the gnarled stab wound from when he'd been harpooned by a merfolk- were small and pale, hidden in the thick black hair._

_Dismas thought, if they could stay like that, it would be fine. But he knew by now there were two parts to Reynauld- a gnawing hunger for contact, and a hate for this new sin. Sooner or later, he'd leave. But for now, he got to have him. See that side of the Crusader nobody else had ever seen- a Reynauld so unlike the zealous warrior of faith everyone else knew him as._

_He wondered what it said about him, that he felt like he was defiling his idol, and enjoyed it so deeply._

_He caressed the knight's great pale arm, pressed his lips against the warm skin. There was a hunger in him, too._

_He didn't want to be alone._

_Night had fallen on the Hamlet, the torches almost extinguished._

_The stone halls of the Guild held no heat, and it was getting unpleasantly cold. Dismas lay still some more, watching Reynauld clean himself, and look for his clothes and armor beside the mat._

_He moved slowly, and Dismas knew from experience he would be in pain for at least a couple of days._

_«Fetch me my pants, will you?» he muttered, and the knight twisted to reach for them. In the moonlight, his shirt, made transparent by sweat, seemed like it followed strange patterns. Without thinking, Dismas grabbed it from the back and lifted it up, up to the middle of the knight's back._

_It was covered in scars._

_Not an inch of skin above the belt had been spared. There were thin and thick ones: all of them old, faded. Above them, sword and knife marks, deep and unsettling, forming craters in Reynauld's pale skin._

_«How... How did you get these...?»_

_And just like that, the spell was broken._

_The crusader didn't jump to his feet, but got up fast, dressed up in a hurry. He was leaving already by the time Dismas was dressed up and chasing after him, calling for him to wait._

_Reynauld carried his armor under an arm, walking hunched over, the shirt hastily pulled back down. He shivered in the night wind._

_He really was limping a bit, and it was easy to run up and talk to him. Harder to get him to stop walking off like a man on a mission._

_«Wait. Stop. Don't do this again.» Dismas grabbed his arm, held him back, dodged in time not to be hit on his already wounded nose._

_«Don't touch me.» the tone meant to be authoritative, but came out hollow._

_«You're giving me mixed signals here. You want to be touched, to- to share something, but only under your rules, and when I cross a boundary you shove me off.» The words came out of his mouth, a bitter cascade. «You want to be my friend, but only at your convenience. You want to be my companion, but only as long as you need it.» Then:_

_«How long are you going to use me like this?» Dismas knew he shouted the last part, but couldn't help himself. He hated everything about this._

_Hated being given a small comfort, for it to be ripped away._

_Hated seeing Reynauld take two steps back for every step forward he took._

_The last words froze the knight in his tracks, in the middle of the  square- by the well, and the old statue._

_The voice that came out of him was nothing like the proud warrior everyone knew. For an instant, there was a sliver of someone else- someone weak and tired and infinitely sad._

_«Is that... Is that what you think I'm doing?»_

_Dismas grit his teeth._

_«Sure feels like it.»_

_Reynauld seemed to sway on his feet a moment, like the cold wind was enough to knock him over._

_He waited, and waited, like he was trying to speak, but no sound would come out of his throat. Then, after some time, Dismas lifted up the neck of his coat and walked off- feeling a weight in his chest, heavier than ever._

_The words were almost lost in the wind behind him._

_«I don't want to taint you.»_

_Again, that tone. That moment of weakness. He turned, just enough to see Reynauld still standing by the well, a hand on the stone as if to steady himself._

_«I'm... protecting you.»_

_There were no more words. Dismas walked off towards the Barracks, knowing it'd be long before the knight returned- and left Reynauld there, by the well and the sinister gentleman's statue. Looking incredibly alone in the night._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed a few things about this chapter.  
> 1 - it's three weeks late.  
> 2 - no chapter image  
> 3- it's slightly unrefined in parts- and would have been even moreso without the help of my lovely beta, http://guerilande.tumblr.com/  
> GO CHECK OUT THEIR WRITING GO GO GO  
> I needed a break from Old Road. I still do tbh. It's a very, very long story i'm still writing.


	8. A chat

 

 

Dismas' mind was a swirling cloud of feelings and thoughts he wouldnt't name or focus on. Instead, he paced around the barracks until he thought the rock floor would be marked by his feet, and when it got too irritating he knocked the door open to go anywhere else.  
Moving on their own, his feet took him to the tavern.  
How predictable, he thought. How pitiful.  
But he walked in anyways.

It was late, but there were still a few patrons at the bar, the loyal ones always first when it opened and always last when it closed. It was a small crowd consisting mostly of old townsfolk, but in a corner was a familiar figure. Sitting all proper on one of the filthy benches, book at hand, was the Occultist, Alhazred. The glass in front of him looked like it'd been filled a long time ago, and never touched: and he kept the seat by his side occupied using the old skull he carried as a placeholder.  
At a time of such confusion, knowing how unreliable he could be, Dismas reasoned it was best for him not to be alone, even if it meant settling for stealing time from someone he heardly knew. It was a fellow adventurer, after all.  
«Waiting for someone?» the Highwayman walked down the stairs and thought he saw Alhazred recoil, scrunch his nose at the stench of sweat that permeated his skin and clothes.   
«Hum... Yes, actually.»   
Dismas dropped down, right next to the skull-with-candle.  
«I need advice.»  
«I'm waiting for my-»  
«On love.»   
That got the Occultist's attention. In fact, he all but whirled on the chair so he could face him.  
«Yes?»  
Dismas wondered how to best phrase it. He didn't know the Occultist, but he seemed like as good a person as any to ask advice to. Better than the likes of Ver, at least. He probably didn't fuck Lepers. Probably.  
«There's a... Lady I like.» he started. Alhazred nodded, the smallest hint of a smile under his curled moustache.  
«Let's say we have difficulties talking to each other. I want something, and I think she wants it too, but then she changes her mind, and it's like she never wanted it to begin with.»   
That was as good a version of the story as he could get without details. God, he felt like such an idiot. But at least, the Occultist's expression didn't change, and he made a small gesture- go on.  
«Uhm... It's hard to talk to her in general. I know little of her life. You know how ladies are.»  
An enthusiastic nod.  
«And she knows little of me. It's like there's an invisible wall between us, or a... Doorway, that only one can cross at a time. And they have to go back, after a time.»  
Alhazred leaned comfortably on the bench, ankles crossed, then reached towards the glass, offering it to Dismas.  
«Here, friend. I wasn't touching it, anyways.»  
The smell was intense- that felt like pure alcohol. It was green, and bitter smelling. He took a gulp, and his whole body shook- like being hit with a cannonball.  
Alhazred watched his reaction, amused.  
«Have you and this lady of yours known each other for long?» he asked then. He was turned to face him, one ankle over a knee and his thumbs and indexes forming a triangle on his lap.  
«Not very long, really.»  
«And you never talked about each other much.»  
«We talk about... Daily life. Thoughts.» He waved a hand, steeled himself, took another sip. This time it felt like being hit with a large caliber bullet.  
«But you consider her important enough this confusion upsets you.»  
Dismas nodded. Another sip.  
«So... You only talk superficially, can't understand each other, and haven't known each other long. I take it the sex must be amazing.» The green alcohol went spraying out in an arc over the table, and Dismas bent over coughing.  
«What? no, no, it's not like that. We've barely been together once.» He defended himself when he could speak again.  
«Then, why do you care about her?» Alhazred was leaning forward, absentmindedly caressing the skull that took the spot between them like it was the most natural thing in the world.  
«I don't...»  
«Why. Do you care about her?» the Occultist repeated, more firmly this time.  
Dismas put the glass- now more than half empty- back on the table, leaned on the back of the chair and sighed heavily.  
«She's the opposite of myself. Strong and unyelding and brave. She's... Clean. But she still talks to me like we're equal.» he put his head between his knees, pressing the tips of his fingers together- Alhazred's hand tics were getting to him- and sighed.  
«I guess... I admire her. I want to be like her.» Despite himself, he smiled.  
«She shines, even in a place like this.»

Alhazred was silent a while, then took a gulp of the bright green liquid, barely reacting to the violently burning alcohol. He even dabbed his mouth with cloth from his bag- Dismas considered if they hadn't been in the Hamlet of all places, he'd have robbed him on principle, just for being so clean and prissy and unfitting of the place's atmosphere. Some men are just asking for a good highway robbery.  
«If i may be so bold, i'd say it sounds like you're infatuated with this lady of yours. That's a feeling worth treasuring.» He flashed a smile.  
«There are times in life, when you have to be the one to ask first. Even if, as a man, it is humiliating to be so open.» The way Alhazred phrased it, and knowing his love encounters took place in a brothel, it seemed like he was talking about something else entirely.   
«Be honest with yourself first, and with her later. This is my advice to you.»  
«So i should just... talk to her?»  
«Pretty much. Now go! My lady shall come soon. I've been waiting for her a long time.» he removed the skull, placed it on his lap, and downed the glass.  
Then, when Dismas was halfway up the stairs:  
«By the way... The Hamlet has a bathouse. Use it.» the gentle smile the Occultist had worn that long turned into a smirk for just a moment.  
«And tell your Lady... The blacksmith said she can come by for her armor anytime next week. Good night!»  
Dismas' cheeks were burning all the way back to the Barracks, despite the cold of the night.


	9. Alhazred

 

«Come, adventurers. I have a special mission for you.»  
This was how the Heiress greeted them as they walked in. Flanked by two bodyguards, she sat on her ornate chair behind her ornate desk with her ornate dress and gave out her deadly orders in the ornate tone of a noblewoman.  
Just the sight of her was enough to make Dismas' stomach churn.  
She made a sweeping motion, guiding their eyes to the respective backpacks and trinkets: the Highwayman was relieved to see he wouldn't be carrying his own severed head this time around.  
As they shouldered the packs, the Heiress unveiled a scroll, ancient and stained: an intricate map of the Warrens. She pointed to the lines marking twisting corridors, narrow passageways.  
«You will begin your mission here. Follow this path, and this path only. Any other will lead to your certain demise.»  
Then, she turned the map around, laying it flat on the desk's surface - on that side was an ink drawing of a sort of beast. Although there was nothing to mark its scale, something about it seemed towering, a twisted abomination of human and swine features, sitting atop a mass of coiled intestines.  
«Slay this beast.» she then said, rolling the map and passing it to Reynauld.

After the mess that had been their last expedition together, Dismas didn't expect he'd ever embark with the same people again. But there they were: Reynauld, Dismas, Ver and Alhazred. In their backpacks, they carried a stack of firewood logs, plenty of food and supplies, and they were loaded with trinkets that oozed arcane energy. rings, fetishes, ancient carved wood and stone.  
The walk to the wagon was silent, not helped by the gloomy weather. They were uneasy at the strange requirements of the mission. Besides, since Dismas and Reynauld hadn't spoken to each other in days, there was nothing to break the silence while the maddened Caretaker guided the wagon up towards the Warrens's entrance.  
Dismas spent the ride steeling himself for the challenge ahead. His heart was beating like a drum, but he forced himself to calm down.  
As a team, they worked well. The last embark had proven it up until his bout of insanity: and they'd all made it out alive. Kind of a rarity in that time and place.  
The warrens weren't too humid for his pistol: they had Reynauld's strenght, Dismas' range and accuracy, Ver's poison and Alhazred's magic.  
Despite all that, he was still terrified.

The entrance to the Warrens was hidden behind a curtain of rotting trees, marked only by strange footsteps in the mud.  
They followed an increasingly wide staircase, down and down until no natural light could reach them. The smell was rancid in there, like that of a sewer: still, it was far too massive a place to be simply sewer works. At times, they couldn't see the ceiling, and the stone walls curved in an arc over their heads: ornate, out of place. Sections of wall had collapsed, revealing odd altars, some ancient-looking, some cobbled together with bones and mud.  
The first signs they encountered of the creatures living there were ominous. They seemed to have a sort of civilization: along the corridors marked on the map, they encountered boards holding dozens of knives, then some kegs of liquor, and, disturbingly - bookcases.  
Certain rooms had dozens of them, the tomes covered in filthy handprints. Alhazred wondered out loud if they were just using the paper for something else, and had nicked the liquor and knives from brigands, or if they were slowly learning how to read.  
How to plan.  
Building a civilization there, in the bowels of the moor.  
It was a frightful idea.

If the place was strange and disturbing, the beasts that inhabited it were worse. Along the way, they encountered creatures that could only be described as "pigs twisted in the shape of a human". Echoes of the beast in the drawing carried over in their appearance.  
The Warrens grew more populated as they walked - now, the sound of skittering footsteps, the distant squealing, they surrounded them, as did the sound of drums, increasingly loud.  
It was then they saw the cart- and at first, none of them recognized what it was. A pile of meat and bones had been lugged on a rickety cart, almost to the point of overflowing. An arm dangled from the side, its fingers broken at odd angles.  
It was human flesh.  
Flies buzzed around it, the stench so bitter Dismas had to raise his scarf to cover his nose. They stood there for a time. Bandits? Fellow adventurers? Townsfolk? And what was that flesh used for? Creating new beasts or...  
«Let's move on.» Reynauld ordered. Despite the sights, his tone didn't change, his back was still straight. He was at ease in the battlefield, even one as twisted as this. Ver was almost excited, theorizing in a hushed tones about the possible implications of what they saw. Could the creatures read? Were the carts supplies? food? Were they using the skin for cloth maybe? Was the alchemy table they just passed the pigmen's own invention?  
That talk was unpleasant to hear, but it kept her focused, it was how she coped, so they tried to bear it. She was a woman of science, after all. She could handle it. They could handle it. For the most part.  
For instance, always prim-and-proper Alhazred was faring terribly.  
He'd given up on cleanliness after tripping in manure the third time in a row, but it was hard to keep his usual scholarly dignity when he was coated in pig refuse up to his turban. Still, he didn't complain, at most clicked his tongue in irritation from time to time.  
That is, until he stepped on a trap.  
The rotating sawblade cut through the sole of his foot, slicing sideways, and he fell with a scream, the torn flesh dangling grotesquely, a white sliver of bone visible through the cut.  
Dismas thought the halls had fallen completely silent: then, movement. the Occultist's scream had given their position away.  
Ver scrambled to Alhazred's side, wrapping bandages dripping with her homebrew medicine around his foot, running the bandage up to his ankle with practiced speed.  
She was still hard at work when the beasts arrived. Crawling, hopping on long hands, carrying scythes and maces and drums: the beasts approached.  
Then, they were upon them.  
Reynauld was brutal, drawing first blood, hollering a battle cry as his sword sliced through a pig-man's stomach, its contents spilling onto the ground.  
Dismas shot and reloaded at lightning speed. When the creatures got too close, surrounding them on all sides, he switched to the dirk, stabbed until they were nothing but flesh, memories of the last weeks of training surging through his muscles.  
Behind them, Alhazred had stopped screaming, but struggled to get back on his feet. His robe splashed with blood to the knee, he crawled to reach his skull-with-candle, beasts crowding around him.  
Ver, too close to him to use her blight-bombs, stabbed and shocked them with flashbangs.  
They were surrounded. And the beasts were pushing Reynaud and Dismas back, leaving them in the middle of a crowd that hollered and screamed and slashed and bit. In their frenzy, some of the creatures vomited, spraying the adventurers with the foul smelling liquid.  
And they fought back like animals themselves. Dismas lost himself in a blood-soaked frenzy: seeing only the next throat to cut, the next head to point at, just shoot and stab and reload and shoot and kill. Reynauld was a chainmail-wearing, sword-swinging machine beside him, not even buckling when a colossal pigman's mace hit him square in the chest, not when he was slashed on the shoulder, on the chest. Ver was a dancer of the battlefield, throwing glass vials with deadly precision, disorienting gas bombs at her feet, and the beasts hit themselves in their confusion, caught in the orgiastic frenzy of violence.  
Alhazred, however, was caught. His scholarly robes little protection when he was stabbed, again and again, by a deformed creature: when a mace knocked the wind out of him, slammed him to the ground. In a flash of clarity, out of the corner of his eye, Dismas saw him crawl. Buckle when he was stabbed in the back. Crawl again, towards the skull.  
And finally, the Occultist was still.

Then, darkness fell.  
The screams of pig-men seemed to dull when a sound grew from the bowels of the Warrens, spreading in the hallways- an ominous chanting, at first a single, weak voice, then dozens, thousands, billions, all overlaid in a chaotic, ear-splitting jumble.  
From the ceiling, blood red tentacles fell on the creatures, suckers draining blood, tearing skin.  
From the ground, tentacles rose, dragged them down, breaking their bones and ripping their flesh trying to move them through the solid ground.  
The sound was maddening- a chaotic mess of snapping bones, tearing flesh, and an otherwordly howl that seemed to shake everyone to their bones.  
And just like that, it was over.

When he could feel his body again, hear something other than the ringing caos left in his ears, Dismas reached into his pack, lit a torch.  
They were surrounded by corpses.  
And in the middle of the carnage, barely able to stand, was Alhazred.  
He was shaking, covered in blood and filth, and his eyes rolled to the back of his head, lips moving silently at first, then, with a voice that wasn't his own:  
«I STILL HAVE SOME USE FOR YOU, MORTAL.»  
Then, it was as if he'd been emptied, and dropped to the ground, breathing in deep gasps of air, clutching the skull-with-candle close to his chest.

While the others rested, bandaged each other up, they watched Alhazred cast spells in a low, exhausted tone, skull at hand, his torn skin zipping shut under the robes. Dismas remembered the agony of being healed by him: wasn't eager to go through that again.

They decided the best course of action was to follow where the pigmen originated from: follow one of the survivors to its den, where they would fight their king. The beast from the drawing.  
That required stealth, agility, and at least decent ability not to step on traps. So, of course, the task fell onto Dismas.  
He left his pack behind, tying the trinkets to his belt, then was off. Walking silently was chief among his skills, and the beast he was tracking- a scrawny thing with a cage on its head, whose amputated arms had been crudely replaced with sickles- was none the wiser. It hobbled, wounded, and moved in pitch darkness, so bringing torches was out of question.  
It was all about his hearing then, and honed sixth sense for danger to rely on.He walked where the creature walked: moved when it moved. When he heard footsteps come their way, he'd flatten against a wall, make himself small, hold his breath until they were gone. How could such creatures see so well in the darkness, and so badly in full light? Was this why they hid down under the earth? Everything about them was backwards.

Soon, the hall widened, the walls turned to natural stone, made smooth and dark by the constant dripping of filthy water along them. He had to check if the gunpowder was still good, but the air wasn't nearly as damp as the Cove's. It'd do.  
Before he knew it, the hallway had ended, like the map indicated. In there, was just a circle, marked with a skull symbol to represent their target. It didn't do justice to the full size of the place. The opening of the hallway was greatly decorated, although ruined by time and humidity. In a circle were dozen other doorways, each flanked by colossal pillars. The place was built like an arena, with a circular staircase leading down to a smooth, rock floor.

The sounds of drums. Squeals. Screams.  
from the middle of the arena-like area, he saw them.  
The beasts crowded around a group of captive humans. Bandits, judging by the discarded weapons, torn shreds of green cloth.  
From a distance, he watched the pigs squeal and dance around them, frenzied. Some surrounded the captives: some lined the staircases around the arena, hollering and squealing.  
Silence fell without warning. Even the bandits, poor fucks, crying their hearts out in terror- even their voices went quiet quiet. From a gate at the base of the arena, the door long broken off its hinges and left to rot, came a slithering sound, deep guttural gurgling. Slither, gurgle. Slither, gurgle. Closer now. Closer.  
Even in the dark, the beast was colossal. It dragged itself on the ground, not with legs but contorting tentacle-like coils of intestines that left a trail of filth as it moved. It towered over the bandits, tied up in the middle of the arena: those still able to speak or move babbled in terror, tried to squirm away.  
Then, the pig-like creature grabbed one of them, tearing him from the bindings. All was silent. Colossal, pale hands wrapped around the bandit's body, his voice a terrified whimper, only sound in the arena -  
The beast opened its mouth.  
Crunch.  
The pigmen erupted in cheer, and the sound of chewing and ripping and tearing filled the colossal underground arena and-  
«Let us go, you foul beasts!»  
Dismas' blood ran cold. He looked down. There they were- in chains, dragged before the pig king, its muzzle and upper body now streaked with blood and vomit.  
«Idiots.» He muttered, under his breath.  
Ver was kicking, Alhazred seemed dead to the world, but Reynauld was facing the beasts, standing tall with the pride of a general who'd led many battles.  
«Untie us, and fight us like a man!» he called. One of the amputee pigmen held his sword like a toy. Close. But they were tied up.  
The pig king turned their way. Opened its colossal maw and let out a deafening squeal. From behind its back, it lifted a colossal cleaver.  
That's it, Dismas thought, finding his body moving before his mind had even registered the situation.  
Time to make a stand.  
Or earn my redemption in death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a late chapter with YET ANOTHER CLIFFHANGER. Sorry i'm not sorry...  
> Also, there's three different references to completely unrelated works in this chapter. Let's see if you can spot even one. If you can, you get to see the new chapter before others do! Ehehe!


	10. The King

 

Down under the Hamlet, away from the world.   
Where the swine thrived, and predator became prey.   
In an ancient arena, the air thick with the smell of blood and shit.  
Squealing, and a gunshot.  
The Pig King's head was thrown back in a wail of agony.  
  
Its snout, the size of a grown man's head, was caked with mud and blood, torn from side to side. Its leathery skin carved where the bullet had hit.  
In the confusion that followed, Dismas moved out from behind his hiding spot, gun and dirk at hand.  
«Damn. Missed your eyes.» He ckuckled.   
It was a short dash to his companions- still held captive by the deformed pig creatures.   
The clawed one that held Reynauld's sword was well within the Highwayman's reach, and its rotting flesh offered little defense against Dismas' blade. He hit with all his strenght, still deafened by the Pig King's squeals, and twisted.  
The blade fell, mud splashing the Crusader's armored knees.   
Dismas looked in his visor a moment before turning.  
Taking a deep breath.  
«Let's kill these beasts! Come on!» he shouted with all his might.  
Then all was chaos.  
Scattering, the pig-men dropped their captives, leaving the wounded swine to writhe on the ground. Stumbling and falling over themselves in a mad dash upwards, away from the arena, the bloodstains, and their own frenzied leader.  
The first slash of the King's cleaver cut trough mud and stone, digging inches into it. Far from the adventurers' position.   
With a heave, its muscles tensed like ropes, it pulled back, and the blade gleamed in the torchlight. Dismas' shadow painted on the ground, facing the king- behind him, he saw Ver readying her blight bombs, burning torch at hand.  
Up close, the bandit could see that the swine was blind- not only that, its sockets were empty, save from the maggots that slithered in and out the diseased hunk of flesh.  
Again, Dismas felt himself smile. A blind monster.  
An easy fight, then.

The second strike hit Reynauld square on the shoulder, splitting armor and chainmail and flesh.  
The knight howled, thrown backwards by the force of the blow, sliding on the mud.   
Blood ran from the gaping gash down to his fingertips, the sword's hilt turning a dark red. With a grunt, he passed it on the other hand. Staggering, forcing himself back on his feet.  
In its frenzy, the Pig King kept slashing, rending the few swine that hadn't escaped yet.   
The arena was almost entirely taken by the monster. Its diseased body was almost too large to move, and that had to have been a lucky hit, it had to.   
Dismas advanced, dirk at hand.   
Feeling the air move as the cleaver passed over his head, hearing the blight bombs break on the beast's skin. It bubbled and melted off, but it was difficult to tell what was happening, there was too much at once- Reynauld's screams turning into a warcry, the burning stink of the blight poison, though skin so hard to stab through, the sound of chanting in the distance.  
Then, Dismas couldn't think of anything.   
The cleaver tore his coat, dug into his flank as he tried to dodge.   
He stumbled.   
Fell.   
No air in his lungs.  
«How can- how-» he could only cough.   
He fell on his back, scrambling to avoid being hit again, hearing the giant blade dig in the ground inches from his hand.   
Somewhere in the arena, Alhazred's voice, the dancing flame over his skull fetish burning bright. Already Reynauld was fighting back, slashing and stabbing, holding the sword with both hands again.

Being healed by the Occultist was agony.   
In his pain and fear, Dismas could feel something crawl in his flesh, tearing and building and tearing again as it worked to undo the damage. Like worms moving about his organs. Something alien and terrifying.   
But soon he could breathe again, although blood was pouring from dozens of new, smaller gashes on his skin.   
He could move again.  
And that was good enough.

He shot again, point-blank in the beast's stomach, in the mess of coiled guts.   
The smell was overwhelming. Dismas felt dizzy, his eyes were watering.  
And despite its size, the Pig King was fast: its lower body was almost immobile, but its arms were strong. Despite its hollow sockets, it was precise.   
A hit bounced off of Reynauld's chestplate, Alhazred barely dodged another, stumbling out of the way as the blade sunk in the ground-  
and in the chaos, torch at hand, it was Ver who saw it first.  
«Behind it! Look!»   
Following in the trail of blood and excrement behind the King was a scrawny, pale piglet, holding two flags. It squealed, a sound they'd missed in the chaos, gesturing with the flags.  
It was giving its King directions, and the monster obeyed.  
The Crusader stumbled to the Highwayman's side, pointing to the creature.  
«I'll distract the big one. Take out the piglet.»  
The pig was small, but Dismas had a clear shot. Closing one eye, he emptied his mind of everything but his gun and his target, following its movements- stepping from one foot to the other, squealing at its King.

The shot rang out, and the piglet crumpled on its side, flags discarded, letting out a pathetic whine as it twitched, bleeding out.  
«Bull's eye.»  
Then the Pig King screamed.  
It was a horrible, ear-splitting howl more human than swine: it threw its head back and screamed and screamed, raised its cleaver, and rammed it into Dismas' side. Earlier, the blow had been enough to send him on the ground: this time, there was enough force behind it to hurl him almost all the way across the arena, slamming against the stone steps.

The world faded in and out.  
  
All sounds were dull and soft.   
Very, very   
far   
away.  
When he looked down, all he saw was blood. His clothes were slick with it: and through the mangled flesh, he saw bone.  
ribs.

Somewhere far away, the ground quaked with the Pig King's franctic pounding, and at close range and with such hysterical speed, it did not need precision: only strenght.   
And it was tearing them apart.  
He saw Reynauld shield Alhazred and Ver from blows: one frantically casting healing spells, the other throwing blight and stun bombs.   
It felt so far away.

Dismas was lost at sea.   
His life ebbed away, out from the wound at his side.  
The torchlight so faint now.  
He was dying.  
But he still had it in him to load the flintlock.   
Fill in the powder, load the bullet.   
His body knew.  
Aim and squeeze the trigger.  
For a moment, the beast was distracted. Just enough time.  
the Highwayman didn't even try to move. He didn't have to.  
Even at a distance he could see the blight poison bubbling under the creature's skin, its movements growing sluggish.   
Just slow enough for Reynauld to run up, too close to be hit, and wail on its soggy flesh- driving the sword inside the Pig King all the way to the hilt and stabbing as if the ornate weapon had been a cheap dirk. Blood coated the ground and the beast screamed and up close like this, Reynauld really did shine, even in the filth.  
A knight in shining armor.  
Of a sort.  
And he fought and took all the blows from the swine without falling, stabs to his chest and stomach strong enough to uproot any other man but not him, not anymore.   
And, maybe to give himself courage, Reynauld shouted as he fought, as if commanding an army.  
Dismas smiled, despite himself.

Then, it was over.  
The only sound now was Reynauld's heavy breathing, a solitary, bloodied knight, standing over a heap of dead flesh.  
"Be..." he whispered, as if repeating something heard in a dream.   
Then, louder:  
"Begone, fiend."  
But his voice was far and there was so much blood, and soon he, too, was collapsing under the weight of his injuries and then  
the world   
ebbed   
away.

  
He was being carried. An arm under his shoulder, Soft cloth under his cheek. Whispering in a language he couldn't understand.   
Then: "You're going to be fine. Hold on." in Alhazred's soft voice.  
He was gone again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a long time to come out because of difficulties in my life. I'd momentarily lost interest as well- but the steady notifications of kudos in my inbox didn't let me forget that I love this story as much as you, dear readers, do. Thank you for that. Your support means a lot!  
> Check back on this chapter in about two days, i'll update the chapter header with a new illustration!
> 
> A little explaination is needed: this is NOT based on an actual playthrough i did, but the status effects on the characters are true (Occultist's Wyrd Reconstruction bleed chance and the Death's Door mechanic in particular)


	11. Sanitarium days, 1

 

How they managed to escape the Warrens was matter of some speculation.   
Ver and Alhazred, frail and scholarly as they were, had somehow dragged Dismas and Reynauld through the mud and filth and traps, all the way back to town- not once stopping to rest, not until they knew Dismas and Reynauld were safe. Only then did they let themselves collapse from their own grievous injuries.  
That, at least, was the story the nurses and villagers told. Ver's version had them dragging themselves out of the filthy pig-hole thanks to her invigorating vapours; she wouldn't risk her life out of the goodness of her heart, no sire.  
Alhazred, barely conscious enough to talk, had just muttered how it'd been a short walk, and to please let him rest, he'd had a long day and wanted to be fresh for when he'd visit his Lady.

The Sanitarium was just barely warmer on the inside than outside. Its medical ward was a long stone corridor with a fireplace at one end- something that Dismas theorized may double as a way to dispose of diseased bodies. The nurses were stocky, cold women, long since hardened by life in the Hamlet.   
All in all, the building was more of a cathedral than it was a place of medicine, its ceiling vaulted and high, chandeliers lighting the stone halls.  
Specialized treatment, as well as the second floor asylum, had narrow private rooms, but it was only for the mad or infectuous. The merely wounded were hauled in that inhospitable hall, to be bandaged, bled out or sewed up as the case requested.  
As it turned out, it was a miracle that any of them had survived. Both Dismas and Reynauld had been inches from death by the time they made it to the sanitarium. Dismas' mind kept wandering to those first few hours, blinking in and out of consciousness to bloodied nurses, screams, worried faces flashing by just at the edge of his vision. After the doctors had done what they could, when it was a matter of seeing if their bodies would survive or succumb to infection. They were dragged in the hall on those uncomfortable cots accompanied by the screaming and shouting of the asylum inmates.  
Dismas' bed was mercifully close to the fireplace. He at least got to sleep comfortably: the others were just piled high with blankets to sweat out the fever. He tossed and turned as much as he could- breathing was painful, moving was agony. His mind swirled and his stomach burned with all the medicine that had been pumped into him.  
Halfway into the night- he figured it was night, at least- he vomited on the pillow. After that, the nurses held him propped up, bucket in hand. He kept drifting in and out of consciousness, but an image held him anchored:  
that of a blood-soaked, barely alive Reynauld, slashing and tearing at the swine king.  
That image alone gave him the strength to hold onto life, with a strenght he never thought he had in him.  
That same fury he saw in Reynauld, that brutal will to survive - he took that fury, and made it his own.

Days passed in a flurry of movement. The new Vestals came around to use their healing spells, and the stern nurses approached with their injections and prodding and scraping off the infection and turning so he wouldn't get bedsores. Still, that was the best medical care he'd gotten in his whole life. Better than a back-alley sew-up job with only alcohol to dull the pain, at least.  
Better than hiding in a corner, hoping desperately for the fever to go down, for no infection to set in, for no guards to catch him while he was weakened, drag him to the gallows.  
In the Sanitarium, he could close his eyes and rest, even if some of the treatments were painful or embarassing, it was better than anything his old life had to offer.

It was hard to tell what time it was when he finally turned away from the fire- sleeping in light always made him feel safe, that's what he was used to- and towards the man in the bed beside him.

He must've been around Dismas' age. His face bore deep wrinkles, a lifetime of worry and tension etched in his features. His short black hair was coarse, as was his thick beard. His nose was flat and crooked, having been broken a long time ago, the only feature in him that wasn't even. But his eyes were dark and intelligent, and his lips- so familiar- twisted in a smile when he saw him looking.  
«I thought we'd lost you.» Reynauld's voice rang strangely clear, without the helmet.  
«I'm thougher than that. You ought to know.» and without thinking, Dismas reached a hand towards him- as if to make sure he was real, and not a trick of his exhausted mind. Reynauld met his hand at the halfway point between their beds. Their fingertips touched for a moment, then the Crusader's hand wrapped, gently and carefully, around the highwayman's. A hand large and calloused and warm and alive.  
Dismas couldn't help but smile, even as he thought how funny they must look- two battle-scarred, aging men, covered in wounds and bandages, holding hands like children. And when he looked into Reynauld's eyes he knew the man had passed a crossroad inside of himself. Maybe it was having been so close to death. Seeing such horrors. Maybe time really does heal everything, even scars so deep you would never guess they're there.  
«I love you.» Reyauld's voice was soft. Dismas replied without a moment's hesitation.  
«I love you too.»

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time i get comments or kudos it just makes my heart soar. It reminds me that my work is read, and loved, and hopefully even with a fanfic like this, readers take a little piece of it in their heart.  
> Speaking of, because the latest updates were delayed on account of moving back with my parents and such, and this chapter is pitifully short, though plot-important, I'll try to make this week a double-trouble one, featuring both chapters of the "Sanitarium days". Our heroes have taken one hell of a beating after all, and they've earned some bed rest.
> 
> Many thanks also to my wonderful beta, salmonandsoup! Look for her works here on Ao3, her grasp on character voices is incredible!


	12. Sanitarium days, 2

 

  
Dismas slept for a very long time. He'd drifted into consciousness from time to time, watching as shadowy figures walked past his bed, turned and prodded and poked at him with instruments and long, bony fingers, stone faces like ancient pillars. He drifted off again, and again would wake up to find the infirmary empty, the fireplace burning low and Reynauld's sleeping face in the cot beside him, barely visible under the blankets. His body felt heavy, and his eyelids heavier still.  
He once woke up to a hunched figure, green robes and a bird skull for a head, busying herself with his bandages. "Lie still, idiot." The bird hissed, pressed him down on the bed. She held something flaccid and squirming in one gloved hand. Dismas wondered why he couldn't stop his head spinning as he watched the creature try and fail to climb over Ver's fingers, and why there were so many others like it on his stomach.  
"You banged your head pretty hard. Thank the shining stars your skull's harder than a rock,” the bird chuckled.  
"I feel kind of sick." He finally managed to spit out.  
"No wonder. If you've to go, try to aim for the bucket." She nudged something with her foot by the side of the bed, moving it closer to Dismas. She clicked her tongue, watching the worm-thing slither up her wrist before plucking it and pressing it on Dismas' exposed belly. "That should do it. Lie still, now. Rest." the beak of her mask lowered, and the Plague Doctor fell silent a moment. "The Light knows you've earned it."  
The Highwayman was already fading away again, his eyelids feeling incredibly heavy, but he clung to consciousness one last moment. Ver's tone sounded so strange. She sounded so sad.  
"Well, now. Time to test if my reverse-bloodletting theories have merit!"  
Dismas thought it was a good time to pass out then.

In the following days as he recovered from the concussion, Dismas would often see Reynauld reading books, or writing in scrolls. Keeping a torch on in the barracks was a great way to get yourself punched, so he must've been catching up. Dismas enjoyed those moments of quiet, watching Reynauld sit still as a statue, bandaged arm cradled to his chest in its sling, the only sound the crackling of the huge fireplace and the paper slowly being turned.  
"So... What is it you're reading?"  
Reynauld looked up from the tome and towards him, giving a faint smile. «This? It's the sacred scriptures. I have all the verses memorized.»  
«Then... Why read it again?»  
The Crusader looked uneasy at the question. It was strange, being able to read his face and not just guess what he was feeling- although, Dismas had noticed, he wasn't very expressive to begin with.  
«So I never forget them again.» Reynauld waved his hand dismissively. «It's an old story, pay it no mind. Would you like to recite verses with me?»  
«I don't... know any.»  
«We could do LVII. It's the one I learned first.» With this, Reynauld passed the book over, moving carefully so that neither would strain their wounds. Dismas' head was still injured, as was Reynauld's arm, and moving the heavy tome from one cot to the other took considerable effort.  
The book was very heavy in his lap, and Reynauld's eyes were on him. Strain as he might, Dismas couldn't even begin to make sense of the marks on the paper.  
«Oh, huh, Light of the Flame...» Dismas started. Reynauld lifted his eyebrows. A sense of great irritation filled Dismas' chest then, and he felt his ears burning. «Blessed are You who are... are... Ah, forget it.» He passed over the book.  
«You can't read.» Reynauld sounded almost shocked.  
«Of course I can't read. That privilege was never afforded to me.» Dismas huffed, laying back down on the pillow and watching the ceiling beams sway. «When you were studying your verses and practicing swordplay and whatever it is you noblemen do, I was learning how to swipe purses and nick food off of street vendors.»  
Immediately he saw the knight's face darken. He didn't recognize the expression, but his body language was that of when he was beginning to close up, to cut away the world, and Dismas with it.  
«Did I offend you?» Dismas’ attempt to coax him out of that stage came off as a taunt instead.  
«I do not enjoy taking about my upbringing. Or having it slapped in my face, like something I'm to blame for.»  
Reynauld spat out the words, surprisingly bitter.

Silence fell. Then, Reynauld picked up the book, looked for the page he'd been reading earlier.  
Dismas must've drifted off in that time, because when he looked up at the Crusader again, the fireplace was almost dead. But he was still sitting there like a statue, only occasionally turning the page. He must've sensed that Dismas was awake, because he spoke again, not turning away from the tome.  
«Do you think our youth defines our whole life?»The highwayman grunted, lifted himself up so he was sitting on the pillow and his back was on the damp stone wall. «Never gave it much thought. Why?»  
«I thought about your words from earlier. You were a thief in your childhood years. And much as I resent it, I did take up sword and scriptures before I could even remember.»  
«I didn't have much choice. It was stealing or starving.»  
«I don't mean to criticize you. You did what you had to survive.» He sighed. «I was born in a noble family. My father, grandfather, ancestors- all noble knights. So, I was to be a knight as well. Simple.» The Crusader's voice grew softer.  
«Simple.» Dismas repeated. He was having trouble staying awake again, but forced himself to, suspecting he may be the first to hear the Crusader talk this way.  
«So I memorized my scriptures. And I was holding a sword before I could remember. Mind you, it was a toy sword, but still.» he chuckled, white and even teeth showing in his smile. «I wonder if I would've chosen another path, had I been allowed to.»  
«What other path?» Dismas asked. Hard to imagine anyone resenting a life when they were never hungry.  
Reynauld just shrugged, dropping the subject.  
Some time passed in the silence, or what passed for silence in that place; the nurses still constantly bustled about, and the screams of those on the receiving end of a syringe of horrible liquid rang out faintly from down the halls.  
«I could teach you to read.» Reynauld sounded almost hesitant.  
«I... I would like you to.»

The Sanitarium was a busy place, but for the first days of Dismas and Reynauld's stay, nobody came for them. The first familiar face, for lack of a better word, was Ver. She hardly spoke save for muttering to herself as she skittered around with the excuse of testing new vapors on them--and then unguents and tinctures, herbs and potions... The smell of venom and alcohol dragged behind her like a cloud, but the way she walked was steady and her hands didn't shake. For someone who almost bragged about only caring about herself, it looked as though being the only one to make it out of the Warrens unscathed had left her with a weight of guilt. Dismas thought she must've been doing an exceptionally bad job at hiding it, if even he could tell.

Alhazred visited much later, and the last stretch of road to the Hamlet had left him exhausted, so he'd been recovering in a room elsewhere in the large building. He walked in late at night, when the torches were low and the fireplace almost extinguished. They'd underestimated how severe his wounds were; a clumsy hobbling replaced his slow, silent gait, and he had crutches under both armpits. He sat on the edge of the Highwayman's bed, towards the embers in the firepit, and it was a long time before he spoke.  
«I'm glad you're alive.» he said. «I think... I did more harm than good, back there.»  
Reynauld cut in from his bed. «We live on thanks to you. Don't-»  
«I was scared. There was so much blood, and I was hurt, and I was scared.»  
«What are you talking about?»  
The Occultist's back was hunched, and his countenance looked haggard, a far shot from the disgustingly prim and proper man from before the expedition. «There was so much blood...» His voice feeble.  
«What are you TALKING about?» Dismas was getting nervous. He'd seen men break and fall in his time in the Hamlet, and could tell the warning signs: the tense shoulders, ragged breathing. Shaking hands.   
He waited, watching the Occultist's profile cast against the fire, features hidden. He listened to him struggle to talk.  
«My powers. They... Deplete, after some time. I need to perform a ritual regularly, and use them carefully, lest I invoke my... Provider's wrath.» He shook as he spoke. «He punishes me. And i think... His punishment almost cost you your lives. I cannot- I will not forgive myself for this.»  
Dismas was having trouble following. He looked to the other bed, saw his confusion mirrored in the Crusader's eyes. Neither knew what to do. They weren't too close to Alhazred: he was sort of a quiet presence, at the very edge of their life. Guilt followed the realization that the Highwayman had barely thought about what had been of the Occultist following their escape from the Warrens.  
«Forgive me for my foolishness.» it came out in a sigh, and it was as if the Occultist had been emptied. Just a small hunched figure, on the edge of Dismas' bed. The look in his eyes was eerily like that of Vane, the Man-At-Arms, after returning from the Darkest Dungeon. Then, he turned to face Dismas and that hollow look was replaced by one of incredible sadness. The light from the fire fell on his face, and there was a massive gash running from his chin to his left eye, leaving his upper lip split like a cleft palate. Bandages were wrapped around his head and over his left eye, looking dark and moist.  
«With a body like this, i can never return to my Lady.» he sighed, got up from the bed.  
When he hobbled off, Dismas noticed something else. Alhazred's left foot was gone. His leg had been amputated just above the ankle. The trap, he thought, finally realizing. He stepped on a trap, drove the pigmen to us. And that must have been when he used up all his powers. And he just kept on walking in the mud, with an open wound in his foot.

Alhazred didn't visit anymore. Ver came by once more with a tray of leeches, painkillers and good intentions, but other than this she too became a shadow at the edge of their lives while they recovered.

 

The healing process was fast, but tedious. The agony of infection and fever was replaced by pain, which was in turn replaced by intense itching. It kept Dismas up at night, unable to focus, and at times he caught Reynauld wincing and trying to scratch them as well. To keep each other distracted, the Crusader started teaching him how to read, using the worn prayer book as guide. He scribbled a series of signs on the back- alphabet, that's what he called it, and had Dismas memorize what each mark meant, so he could recognize it on the paper.   
But studying was irritatingly draining and slow, and both were too frustrated with the bed-rest for much to come of it. Dismas got some laughs out of hearing Reynauld repeat the alphabet by reciting it in a little childish song, arguing it really was a good way to learn.

They took little walks together, holding each other up- first to the end of the hospital hall, then out of the door in the unfamiliar corridors. On until their legs ached, then back, and by then they were exhausted and in agony.   
But every day they walked a little farther. Every day they recovered a little more strength.

Outside, the world hadn’t stopped. Adventurers came and went and died and were replaced. The constant flow of wounded in the sanitarium a testament to that- At times, it was the most gravely wounded, the ones that screamed or drowned in their own blood: at times, it was just bruises and fractured bones. Some of them just never woke up, and there was no commotion: nothing but a nurse stopping halfway through her rounds, checking the body, calling for a gurney.

As Dismas and Reynauld's beds were next to each other, and facing the door, they took to distracting themselves from the itch - and regular bouts of vomiting as their bodies adapted to whatever it was the nurses were giving them- by watching the door and following the to-and-fro of staff and patients. Some asylum ward inmates were adventurers, some Hamlet inhabitants broken by their long stay in that secluded place, forgotten by the world. They spoke to themselves, and told stories to all who were willing to listen. It didn't take much to coax one of the older patients in the room and get them to launch in the strangest of stories, tales of ghost pirates and pelagic broodmothers, of spiders as large as a man's torso and giants that wielded tree trunks like clubs. They spoke and spoke, or sat and stared and warmed up by the fire, or muttered to themselves. Their company was appreciated nonetheless, and Dismas and Reynauld would be up late after each of these encounters, whispering theories and stories to each other, beds pushed close so they could speak without bothering the other patients. Sometimes, they'd watch nurses and staff carry a gurney with a more severe patient, to the dingy operation room. Sometimes, they went straight to the morgue.  
One such body, the sight of which stuck with them for a long time, was that of a Houndsmaster, judging by the scraps of uniforms and the whistle still held in one hand. It was misshapen, crumpled and broken, and looked as if something massive had taken bites out of its side. The gurney had left a trail of blood in its wake, so soaked in blood and fluids that the cloth had turned black. That night, the patients of the hall were kept awake by the sight, and the screams from elsewhere in the building- broken men and women screaming about beasts with many heads and maws. About bandit armies in the forest.

It would've been foolish talk, had they been anywhere else.

Late at night, they theorized about the Estate, about how the place was changing, shaping itself in the shape of those who visited. Seemingly endless: folded upon itself, Junia had said on that fateful expedition. The same place, overlaid in time and space...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by Salmonandsoup! Check out her fanfics on Ao3 and her roleplay on Tumblr!  
> Reverse bloodletting is a theory Ver had been working on for a long time that involved sucking blood from a patient with leeches, putting them on a more severely injuried one, and SQUEEZING. It did not work as intended, and cleanup was a bitch.


	13. Sanitarium Days, 3

  


  


The date of Dismas and Reynauld's release from the Sanitarium grew close.   
Their wounds were healing: soon they would be back to work, safe as long as they didn't overexert themselves.   
Dismas thought the day couldn't come soon enough; he had some habits that needed taking care of, and having to wait so long was infuriating.   
Furthermore, in that crowded room where torches burned at all times, it was so much harder to properly take care of himself, and stress was building up in him.   
Stress from being bedridden: and stress from being pent-up.  
Every day he got to watch Reynauld in all his large and muscular glory, clad only in braises and bandages. The Crusader seemed unaware of the effect he had on others, tall and strong as he was and with the complete lack of phisical shame that comes from being a career soldier. Dismas reasoned that maybe, despite all that had passed between them, he still couldn't understand how a man could look at him the same way a woman would- with the same sort of hunger.  
That was how, from the high of his medical expertise, Dismas decided if he had to wait any longer to rub one out he would go insane and end locked up in the sanitarium forever. He'd already gone nuts once after all. That night, he kept himself awake until lights out- the way he'd come to call the dead hours between nurses' shifts when the torches began to dim and the fireplace to flicker out. Listening with keen ears to the sounds in the massive hall with its rows of metal cots, listening until the sparse chatter died down with the artificial light, listening until the only noise was the howl from outside the windows and the odd cough and groan of pain from the other patients. Carefully covering himself with blankets, only the top of his face exposed, he kept his eyes on the Crusader: deep in sleep with his head turned to the fireplace, to Dismas, Reynauld slept with his arms crossed over his wide chest and his mouth slightly open, lower lip glistening with drool. He had a really nice mouth, Dismas thought, with full pink lips and pale even teeth.  
Hands shaking, he reached in his own braises, finding himself growing stiff already. He'd planned on turning to the fireplace so he could watch the door should any nurse arrive: instead, he found himself unable to move, stuck revisiting his previous encounters with the Crusader and thinking how different they felt now that he knew what the man looked like under the helmet.  
With the practiced quiet of a thief (and long time stealth masturbator) he began to stroke himself, letting his mind fill with images and memories- the pleasant parts of them at least. He used Reynauld's sleeping features, half shrouded in darkness, as base for his fantasies. Imagining his brow furrowed in concentration when he was sucking him off: pleasure and pain mixing in his expression as he rode him in the guild room, taking him to the root with almost no preparation.  
Then Dismas' mind was flying, his immagination building other scenarios, and in these it was a fantasy version of Reynauld who approached him, not really the emotionally stunted man he knew: a Reynauld who was honest about his feelings and desires. A Reynauld who didn't think of himself as filthy and unholy for wanting, needing another man's touch as much as he did.  
After their mutual confession- admission really- of love it felt so much less like desacrating an idol, to fantasize about waking him up and fucking him right there and then on the Sanitarium cot, about having Reynauld's muscular thighs over his hips and watching his face scrunched up in pleasure, to lose himself in the image of sweat running down his brow and his hairy chest and stomach and watching his strong hands gripping handfuls of bedsheets.  
Dismas stopped before he could climax, brought both hands up to the pillow- aware his breathing had grown ragged, and his movements less stealthy. Focused on Reynauld's features, the real one, sleeping the heavy sleep of the medicated. Aware his cock was hard and twitching and dripping precum on the bed, on the razor's edge of orgasm. Carefully, he reached down again, let the fantasies fill his head and started stroking slower, mindful of the noise-  
And realized the Crusader's eyes were open.  
Dismas' blood ran cold.  
«What are you doing?» whispered, accusatory. Frozen like a fox caught by a hound, the Highwayman could just stammer, aware his face was turning several interesting shades of red.  
«Are you...» Reynauld started, lowered his tone to a whisper. «Practicing onanism?»  
«The what-now?»  
«It's a sin, you know.» the crusader's brow was furrowed, but his eyes kept darting down, visibly curious.  
«I'm nothing if not a seasoned sinner.» Dismas chuckled. Then, throwing a glance at the door and the other cots- no nurses around, no one stirring- lifted the blanket over his hip. Reynauld's eyes widened. Now it was he who was blushing red, and turning to the side- no guesses as to what he wanted to hide.  
«I take it this is not a habit of yours?»  
«Not really...» it came in a throaty whisper, and Dismas was a wordly enough man to tell arousal in another man's voice. He slowly started stroking himself again, pulling the foreskin back, but this time keeping eye contact, as if to challenge the crusader to do the same.  
Hesitantly, he threw his own blankets to the side- only barely enough for his crotch to be visible- lowered the braises with hesitant and slow movements. The Highwayman turned to moan in the pillow then - mostly for show. Every movement slow and deliberate. Peeking to watch Reynauld grasp his own cock, give it a tentative tug. Like a child, he thought, and stifled a laugh.  
He got the hang of it soon enough, however. His cock wasn't the longest Dismas had seen, but it was thick, with a wide head and a nice pink color. It looked as though it really was his first time touching himself- or maybe just the first in a long time. Reynauld's mouth fell open, brow furrowed in concentration, giving the Highwayman the show he'd been painting in his mind. Unconsciously, the crusader buckled his hips, as if surprised by the pleasure he was feeling. His muscles trembled, sweat running down his forehead and biceps, thighs straining with effort.  
«Can you... Ah...» he gasped, bit his lower lip. Trying with all his might not to make a sound. Dismas watched him struggle and felt himself shake, stroking himself faster, this time biting the pillow to keep the noise down.  
«Dismas, can you... Open your mouth for me?» Reynauld's words sounded hesitant, as if he was scared to ask. Confused but too aroused to think, the highwayman did as he was told- opening up, tongue out, baring his sharp canines. That way, he had no way to stifle the moans, his heavy breathing.  
«Ah, yes... That's...» Reynauld's words were swallowed by an almost animalistic grunt, and he franctically pulled some of the gauze from his arm to catch his seed before he buckled and came, thrusting into his own hand. Dismas followed shortly after- arching his back to give the crusader as good a show as he'd been given. Seed dripped down on the stone floor and mattress, a moist spot at hip level, and Dismas couldn't care less if that meant he'd be spending the rest of the week on a cum-stained mattress if it meant he wouldn't miss a moment of watching Reynauld with his eyes glazed over, breathing ragged and skin glistening with sweat as he calmed and his erection wilted, spent.

Some time passed before any of them made a sound, hazy in the afterglow.  
«Why did you order me to open my mouth?» Dismas asked. Reynauld's ears went bright red.  
«I, huh... Was imagining you. With your mouth around...» he didn't finish the thought, and Dismas made it a mental note to try and turn that fantasy in a reality first chance he got.

He'd barely pulled the blankets back down before a surly nurse came by to collect the vomit buckets, a look of scorn on her face. By the timing, she must've been in the room for several minutes now, doing the rounds.  
As he waited for her to leave the room, he knew both he and the Crusader were wishing a gun would appear from thin air, so they could shoot themselves.  


  


  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy get-caught-by-a-nurse-while-masturbating-day!  
> This chapter is short but i wanted to get it out for Valentine's. I added a doodle of Dismas' o-face for your viewing pleasure to make up for it.


	14. Lovett

Dismas had never thought the day would come when warmth, regular meals and medical attention would bore him. But by the time he was dismissed, his nerves were so frayed by the inactivity it was all he could do not to snap at anyone who even looked at him wrong. He was a man of action, and hadn't experienced so much downtime in years. Being so long in the same place meant death for a Highwayman, it meant being cornered off in your sleep by the gendarmerie, it meant the gallows. It was already hard enough sleeping every night in the Barracks. Even Reynauld's company, pleasant as it was, had gone stale.   
It felt somehow natural to part ways at the Sanitarium’s doorway. With an amicable nod they walked off to their destination, feeling the freedom and fresh air for the first time in what felt like ages.  
A freedom that Dismas immediately took advantage of to head to the tavern, coin in hand and throat parched.

The tavern was crowded as always, but it was quiet, a heavy atmosphere hanging in the air. No cheers or laughter from the gambling hall: the noise from the brothel subdued.  
Not a fitting atmosphere for the day after an expedition returned.  
Oh, one of the adventurers had come back allright. He was in the barracks, wailing mad after the Heiress had refused to pay for treatment, for what his broken mind needed to keep going. When he'd started clawing at his eye sockets and screaming and sobbing, the other recruits had all but locked him in. Without a place to sleep, they'd resorted to pooling their money and rented a room in the inn, sharing the few beds out of a strange habit to be together. The ones who couldn't afford the space resigned themselves to a long night away from the barracks or an ever longer night in.  
Not ten minutes out of the Sanitarium, Dismas found himself thinking how foolish it'd been to forget what kind of place the Estate was: where a single adventurer making it back on death's door, broken beyond repair, was considered a roaring success.  
In the long months since he'd arrived, the Highwayman had managed to stay alive and relatively sane, all things considered. He clung to his life and his mind with vicious fierceness as he had been doing for so long. Maybe he was so resilient because of how the Heiress had found him when he was first hired- it was hard even for him to get lower than rock bottom- maybe it was because he had Reynauld in his life. He'd been mooching off his courage and relentlessness and power like a sponge. Most of the faces he saw in the hamlet had nothing if not their own bodies and their own despair pushing them forward.  
Each of them had accepted the job knowing the risks. There was nothing to return to for the adventurers.  
He found an empty chair and dragged it by the kegs on the corner of the room, out of a habit never to have his back to an entrance- especially when his guard was low and he was nursing a glass of cheap alcohol. It was terrible, so much worse than he remembered, and it made his eyes and nose sting. It was a bad taste that somehow reminded him of home. Of being always on the run, of drinking to forget fallen friends, of scrambling for food and bullets and one night of warmth, sinking deeper and deeper in a world of filth, of being scared and hurt and tired all the time.  
In the span of a few minutes, he'd gone from feeling irritated at the stillness of the Sanitarium to being slammed back in reality - a reality that hurt at every corner, and didn't wait for you to be ready. A reality that didn't care if you had something worth living for. How strange how easy it had been to take comfort for granted.  
He ran his eyes over the crowd, scanning the tavern from one corner to the other. Smoke curled and dissipated against the low beams blackened by years of soot, the door swinging open and closed with the constant trickle of patrons, a mix of adventurers and townsfolk. He watched a group of men walk down the curved boards that made up the stairs, tracking mud over mud over wood smoothed by years. He watched the adventurers hiding in shadows, unwilling or unable to mix with either the peasants or one another. Flint and steel lighting another pipe, acrid smoke adding to the heavy stink of the room. His glass was empty, and he threw more gold to the tavern keeper. Cloudy liquid that spilled from the edge of the glass, over his red gloves. He watched people coming and going from the stairs of the brothel and gambling hall, feeling tense muscles relax just an inch. He had his chair tipped back, resting against the wall, arms crossed. In the crowd he picked up bits and pieces of conversation, disconnected words and thoughts and feelings and all so low, he'd never been in a tavern with so many people that was so quiet. It was as though they were hiding from something that haunted the town, too scared to be loud and risk drawing its attention, too cowardly to admit it even in their drunken state. Another glass empty. The weight of death hung over his head.   
Any expedition now.  
Any day now.  
Maybe I'll be next.  
Maybe it'll be Reynauld.  
More alcohol to burn away the thought before it became an obsession, but there it was already- and he felt foolish hoping intoxication would help, knowing it wouldn't. A dark shadow was clouding his thoughts, but the more he drank, the easier it came to drink more. He felt fuzzy and frayed on the edges, and had to put all feet of the chair down, lest he tip over and hit the wall. The air felt thick.  
He thought: would I take a stab to save him? A deathblow for his sake? Would my body even let me?  
He moved on instinct, most of the time.  
Dismas’s mind was swimming. He couldn’t stop thinking, and before long he caught himself with his head in one hand, watching the reflection in the glass- a gaunt, aging man, with the dark and shifting eyes of a prey animal. Like the rabbits he'd trap while waiting for wagons, white little things so cowardly and scared. Reynauld didn’t have that look. Even if a man with so many scars really ought to, he didn't have that look at all.  
He said he loves me, he thought. No doubt in his voice, not for one moment. I think I hesitated. For a heartbeat, no more- maybe enough for him to notice, though. Did he notice?  
Lord, is it me who’s using him after all?  
A robber clinging to a holy man for a purpose in life. Now that was something.  
The alcohol really was stinging his eyes after all. Everything looked blurry.  
Had he not been so drunk, he would've jumped at the sudden weight of a hand squeezing his shoulder - large and strong and warm, and his heart skipped a beat when he looked up. But it wasn’t Reynauld.  
It was a Leper.  
While he moped in his corner the tavern had cleared up, a space forming next to him while the towering man approached, bunched up against the walls - Hamlet residents and adventurers alike shifting like water to be as far away as possible from him. The Leper was so massive that the top of his masked head brushed against the ceiling beams.  
“I think you’ve had enough.” despite his ragged appearance, the man’s voice was soft.  
“Tryin' to pick a fight?” Dismas lifted the edge of the coat, let the handle of his dirk gleam in the torchlight, aware of how comical it might've seemed, to threaten a giant with his toothpick of a blade.  
The silence was unnerving.   
And there were far too many eyes on him, an uncomfortable attention that made the back of his head itch.  
“Let’s take it outside.” Was the Leper’s only reply.

The man led the way, maybe too confident or stupid to realize how foolish it was to turn your back on someone like Dismas. Still, the Highwayman ignored his chance, hand gripping the dirk, feeling a dark red fury filling his vision and not fully knowing why.  
The wind was a shock against his face, sudden drop in temperature making his cheeks and lips burn before he could cover them with his scarf.  
When he looked up, squinting from the cold, the Leper was walking away in great strides- leaving the Highwayman to chase after him.  
“You want to fight, at least fight me properly!” Their cape and coat billowed in the wind- lord, how long had he been in the Hamlet? Why was it always this cold and humid? - and it was all Dismas could do to keep up with the towering mountain of a man, the only sound in the town square that of two sets of boots on the cobblestone.  
Once they were far enough away from the bar and from its many prying eyes, the Leper turned, hands turned in a friendly gesture.  
“I have no intention to fight. I just wanted to get you out of there- You looked like a man getting lost in a bottle, and that is no way to celebrate your release from the sanitarium.” Again, that soft tone: so unbefitting of a man that large and imposing.  
Dismas let go of the dirk’s handle, but didn’t lower his hand. Crouched, the primal part of his brain expecting an attack.  
“Why would you care?”  
The warrior's exposed mouth betrayed no expression, if even he could hold one with his stone-like skin. The slits of the mask were narrow enough that it was impossible to read his eyes, which made him look even more like a statue. Still, his posture betrayed no ill intent, hands well away from the hilt of the massive executioner's sword.  
Now that he looked closely, Dismas could tell that his armor was somehow oriental in design, and that beneath the layers of soot, it was covered in intricate engravings. Efficient, but still elegant. Who was this man?  
“I believe that all that can save us in this grim place is mutual support. Even when it’s not exactly welcome.”  
the Leper made a strange gesture with his hands: like a salute, or the equivalent of a handshake when one knows few will want to touch you.  
“My name is Lovett. I am a... Friend... Of Ver’s. I believe you know her.”  
It clicked then.  
“Oh. You’re her companion.” The words came tumbling out before he had a chance to stop himself, but the man didn’t seem to mind, or to react in any way.  
“She paints it as trying to find a cure for my ailment. Not a honest woman she is.” A tinge of amusement in his soft voice.  
Dismas shrugged.  
“I’ve never met a scientist who was honest.” The cold air was good for his head, a sharp contrast with that of the musty bar, and his mind felt clearer already. He rarely noticed how fast his mind filled with ghosts when he drank alone.  
“Thanks for getting me out of there. I believe I may be in debt.”  
The man chuckled, lowered his head to look Dismas in the eyes.  
“I know that haunted look all too well. Whatever it is that ails you, know this: the Hamlet is not as dark a place as it seems. We are joined together against the corruption. We are the flame.” and with that ominous and familiar phrase, he walked off.

“We are the flame”.   
Dismas and Reynauld were in the clearing behind the barracks, and the Highwayman's words rang clear in the silence.   
He’d wandered in the familiar spot nearby out of instinct and found Reynauld there, smoking on his own. Sharing the same pipe was a strangely nostalgic feeling, given how much had changed since the first time they'd done it, and for a few minutes they both just enjoyed it in silence, heads craned close, arms and shoulders pressed together.  
“What was that?”  
“Mm?”  
“What you just said. That phrase.”  
“We are the Flame? I heard it from Lovett, the Leper warrior. We had a chance meeting at the bar, earlier.”  
Reynauld scratched his chin under the helmet.  
“It sounds familiar somewhat.” he passed the pipe and Dismas took a grateful pull, breating in the acrid scent of tobacco and letting smoke fill his mouth. “I think I heard the Heiress say it at one point. Either during our first embark or when we were on our way here, before the wagon’s wheel came off.”  
“Is that what happened? I could’ve sworn we hit a boulder.”  
the Highwayman shrugged.  
“Why should it matter?”  
The Crusader’s tone was like someone trying to recall a dream.  
“It feels like something I should remember. Like... A puzzle with a missing piece. How did we end up on the old road? How did the wagon crash?”  
Dismas strained his mind. He’d been cleaning his gun as well as he could in a moving vehicle- but neither of his companions spoke, and he was getting uneasy. Out the corner of his eye he saw the noblewoman's lips moving in the dim light. But when he turned to look at her, the windows exploded inwards with the force of the impact with the ground, and he didn't remember if he'd actually heard anything over the creak of the wagon, hooves on the dirt path.  
“I can’t remember. I was focused on my flintlock.”  
“I was looking outside the window. I feel sick on long wagon trips. That’s why it’s strange I can’t remember.”  
“Did you hear the Heiress talk, back then?”  
the crusader shook his head.  
“Not really. I don't think so. Damn it...”  
Dismas sat on his haunches, feeling exhausted by the day’s events. It was dark, but the moon was out, and the clearing was well-lit.  
Even on such a peaceful night, it felt unsafe to discuss this subject.  
“I can’t understand why it’s so important.”  
Reynauld didn't bother to hide his irritation.  
“I have a very good memory. I recall everything perfectly up until we were hired, and from when we arrived at the Hamlet.”  
The Highwayman chuckled.  
“Yeah... And the first thing you did was swipe my flask.”  
“That too, yes. But I can’t focus on the journey to the Hamlet itself.” He took a deep breath before the words poured out of him, voice strained as though he was trying to keep quiet.  
“Where was the Caretaker in all this? I didn’t see him leave the wagon. I didn’t even know it was him who drove us to the Hamlet until I saw him ride the stagecoach next week. For Sun’s sake, where was the Heiress?”  
Dismas tried to focus on the memories. He remembered the wagon tumbling down the side of a hill- he thought so at least. It felt more like it went upwards, but that would be impossible, wouldn't it? He remembered his head spinning and the sounds of glass and wood breaking. Then they were in the dark, among the crooked trees, and it was all they could do to survive and make it into town, no time to think about anything else.  
Was the road straight, or did it bend and curve? Did they face a single bandit or several?  
What did they find on the old road?  
Where was the Heiress in all that?  
His head ached, it swam and reeled and Dismas told himself it was just the liquor, it had to be.  
“I don’t see your point.” he lied. Reynauld just shrugged, crossed his arms. Watching the forest like a stone guardian.

 

Occultist, Highwayman, Jester, Leper.   
It was the first time Dismas would be embarking without Reynauld, and it felt strange to stand in front of the Heiress' desk without him at his side.  
Still, it was as good a party as any: he knew Alhazred already, Pierrepont was one of the more experienced adventurers among them, and Lovett seemed trustworthy.  
He felt uneasy all the same.  
It wasn't just the Crusader's absence that unsettled him: The Heiress was smiling.  
It was vacant, as though she wasn’t aware of it: but there it was, the faintest curl of her lips. The woman had always seemed like a doll, hollow and incapable of anything but sending out orders from behind her desk. But she was smiling now.  
And he thought he’d seen that smile before.  
When she handed him his own head in a bag  
(a sliver of another time and place)  
He thought: she must have looked like this when she sent those poor souls to the manor, to their death.  
He thought: we are the flame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filed under: Dismas' self-esteem is extremely fragile, everyone in this setting is either an alcoholic or a nymphomaniac or both (i'm looking at you, Ver)  
> By the way: while writing this i quit smoking twice, first temporarily for health reasons and then for good, and i think this is the last time Reynauld and Dismas smoke in the story.   
> Which is ok with me. They sort of quit smoking alongside me.  
> This chapter is the start of the second arc of the story (third if you count the Sanitarium Days chapters as a proper arc) and so it was really hard to write. Fun, but hard. Also, it took me so long to get around to posting this I chose to just fucking stay up until 1 AM editing on a work day rather than delay another day, i'm dead. Killed by my own procrastination.


	15. Pierrepont

 

Light was a scarce and precious resource in the estate. Truth be told, every supply item was numbered and all had to be carefully rationed by the Heiress before embark, every piece of bread and roll of bandages checked off enormous ledgers on her desk, and by the adventurers during. But the most precious commodity of all, more than food and shovels to clear their path, more than bandages and medicine for their wounds, was light. They did what they could to take advantage of every minute of sunlight. So, embarks were at daybreak.

On the morning of the expedition, the air was frigid. Dismas’ breath condensed in pale clouds in front of his mouth, even through the scarf, and fingers were stiff even through the warm leather of his gloves. It was a cold that seeped in the bones. It had drizzled sometime before dawn, and the ground was moist and muddy, and a thick fog had fallen on the Hamlet.

His hands in his pockets and shuffling to warm himself up, the Highwayman made his way to where the group was waiting, his companions for the expedition. He saw Pierrepont the Jester waving and Lovett with his arms behind his back, tall as an iron mountain––both untouched by the miserable weather, or so it seemed. In contrast to his comrades, Alhazred was a mess. The sanitarium nurses––or maybe Ver, or another such mad creature––had devised a sort of artificial leg for him to walk on fashioned of wood and iron, leather straps clasped around his calf and knee and thigh. It seemed to work well enough; with effort, he managed to keep up with everyone else. Alhazred was shivering visibly, rubbing his arms and dragging his good foot on the ground. Their eyes locked, and the Occultist's brow furrowed as he gave Dismas a nod. It was good, he thought, to have somebody he knew around.

Pierrepont was cheerful as they set out. It really did seem as though the Hamlet wasn’t affecting him at all. Oh, he’d had his fair share of "bad adventures" as he called them, and would gladly tell one or two or all of them in a row in return for a stiff drink, but he was a man who relished in being the center of attention. Despite his comical appearance and cheerful attitude though, he moved in a way that suggested he knew exactly what he was doing. It's easy to underestimate a clown, Dismas thought. Easy not to notice the blades he carried.

Keeping a few paces ahead of them, map at hand and sword on his back, Lovett was like a silent mountain. There was a strange sort of grace to him: he remembered thinking Alhazred had the same sort of air about him when they left for their first embark together, in the Cove. They both had an air of untouchability to them. Soft spoken and dangerous, although in different ways.

The cobbled road turned to muddy earth as they crossed the town gate into the forest. Stones lay under Dismas' feet, the undergrowth up to his knees first, then his hips. Behind them, the gate was framed by twisted trees: and in its center, waving a flag and a flask respectively, were Reynauld and Ver.

Dismas had to stop then, taken aback by the scene. Reynauld, tall and strong and brave as he was, flag in one hand and waving with the other, all but bouncing on his knees to ensure Dismas was watching, knowing he was there. Dismas felt short on breath, for some reason. By the Crusader's side, the hunched Plague Doctor, lazily waving the flask in the air.

The wind carried her words: “Fuck 'em up!” Dismas laughed, waved back.

The dark swallowed them.

The rocky forest ground grew soft and moist, and before long they were in the Weald. A sickly sweet smell hung in the still air around them. The Highwayman pulled the scarf up over his nose, tucked the knot inside his shirt so it formed a seal over his lower face, filtering the air through the cloth. The trees were larger there, roots as thick as his thigh criss-crossing just under the swamp's surface. Lovett used his broken sword to cleave a path through the plants, carving through wood that split as if rotten, seeping bright green fluid. Pierrepont walked in his footsteps, careful and quiet as a cat despite the bells hanging from his outfit, dirk in hand. Dismas lagged behind, watching the path, all ears and eyes and bandit senses.

With his coat getting tangled in the undergrowth, or his metal prosthetic sinking too deep into the ground, scratching his leg when he tried pulling it out, Alhazred proved to be the most ill-suited and noisy of the group. He would've ruined any chance at stealth they had, if that had been an option in the first place. Dismas felt a pang of guilt at how coldly he was evaluating the situation: they had two extremely agile men in the group, one that could withstand anything, and a cripple. Something dark in his mind whispered bait.

A slithering column of clear-yellow liquid, encasing bleached white bones, sloshed up to them. Empty eye sockets on the party, it swayed and danced, as if trying to imitate a human. Lovett slashed it in half in a single strike of his broken sword. They moved on.

There were bones in the soil, Dismas noticed. A femur, a mandible, ribs covered in mud. Cloth hung limply on the branches. And the sounds that surrounded them were familiar, like someone walking circles around them, hidden by the undergrowth, with short bursts of movement from one side of the swamp to the other, too fast to catch. At the corner of his eye, Dismas thought he'd seen a humanoid shape, skittering on all fours. His skin crawled.

“Sure is quiet here,” he mumbled to himself. The forest, even the scraggly edges around the Hamlet, always had life in it: at the very least, boars and wild dogs and birds and bugs. Besides the noise caused by their movements in the undergrowth, there was nothing. Nothing but that occasional movement.

Was it circling closer?

The clearing was wide when they approached, a breath of fresh air, but only for a moment. Dismas saw the movement before really understanding the shape. “Don't move,” He whispered.   
Beyond Lovett's shape, sword drawn and ready to strike, something stirred, twisted, rose. They weren't humans, no more than the slime-thing had been human; they were more like plants having overtaken a corpse, its bones twisted, skeletal face twisted in a silent scream. The mushroom creatures' heads were deformed beyond recognizion, spouting off from skull and shoulders. Fragments of bones visible in spots, shreds of skin hanging off. They swayed and turned and moved like puppets on an invisible string. More of the things appeared from the twisted grove: shambling on two feet, covered head to toe in a thick, dried sap-like substance. The smell was so thick that Dismas thought he could vomit there and then, feeling his lungs burn from the blight even through the scarf. Behind him, Alhazred bent over coughing.

Dismas' heart skipped a beat, he saw Pierrepont's muscles tense, but after a few tense seconds, the creature didn't seem to react. Out of instinct, Dismas reached a hand out from behind the log they were using as cover, right in the creatures' line of sight, and waved it. No response. Blind, he thought. Makes sense. There was no hope of passing by without drawing attention. But they could catch them by surprise.

He got the first shot on one of the crawling spore carriers. Its skin broke in a cloud of noxious gas that stung his nose and lungs, burning horribly on the way down. Despite being hit full-force by the blast, Lovett didn't even flinch––and he didn’t flinch even when one of the larger mushroom creatures attacked him, taking the full brunt of the hit on his chest. His movements were slow: the sword was massive, incredibly heavy. Dismas skidded past the two of them, stabbed in the other mushroom creature. Its skin was tough, hard to penetrate: and he was thrown to the ground, splashing in a puddle of swamp water. Behind him, Alhazred casting spells in a strange language, and Pierrepont was... Playing the lute. Dismas couldn't believe his ears. It didn't make sense.

However, as he threw himself on his feet, dodging around the creature and slicing at its skin and maneuvered around Lovett swinging his sword, he found his feet moving in time with the tune: a frantic rhythm, the sound of battle. And the creatures, seemingly moving by sound, were confused, their attacks missing. Dismas made short work of the mushroom man and one of the spore carriers. He turned, his breathing heavy, to find Lovett dislodging his sword from other such creatures. Neither had been scratched during the fight. When all three turned to Pierrepont, the jester just chuckled, bowed theatrically.

They pressed on.

Pierrepont started playing as they walked, whenever they stopped to rest and when Lovett stopped to check the map. The Jester enjoyed the attention that got him, and after a time he started taking requests for some tune to sing, his fingers lightning over the strings.

“Do you know any tavern songs?” Dismas asked.

“Of course I do! but I'll play them only if you agree to sing along with me,” Pierrepont replied with a cheeky smile.

“A slow tune, maybe? something to soothe the nerves.” was Lovett's request, answered by an enthusiastic nod.

“How about you, Occultist? You seem like you'd enjoy a song.” the Jester was fiddling with the lute, playing a few stray notes.

“Ah... You wouldn't happen to know any Arabian music, would you?” Alhazred asked.

Pierrepont shook his head, but said. “I could make you a song, though. Improvise. A song just for you.”

That coaxed a small smile out of Alhazred. “I'd like that.”

The trees grew taller still as they walked further in the Weald, their branches intertwined, tied in knots. The air was increasingly thick and hard to breathe, and Dismas thought how strange it was: those trees, trunk as wide as a house, so tall he couldn't see the top… shouldn't they be visible from the Hamlet? How was it so much hotter there than the town, so much so he could feel sweat running down his neck and spine?

Still, they walked on, even when knee-deep in the murky water, even among rocks so slippery with moss it was almost impossible to move. Well, they pressed on with only slight problems: With his prosthetic leg, Alhazred was having trouble, lagging behind and often stumbling. when they stopped to catch their breath against a colossal tree trunk, he lifted his robes to his knees- scraped and bloodied- and sighed deeply.

Pierrepont strummed him a few notes to draw his attentions, then played a short tune.   
“How's this for a start to your song?” the jester asked, and that was distraction enough, and soon the two of them were deep in conversation, discussing music, one humming a tune and the other playing it, then adding his own ideas.

Lovett watched on, tall and stoic. “You know... the plants here are more infectious than I am.”

“It's not that,” Dismas said defensively, and it wasn't a lie, at least not in full. He bit his lip and changed the subject. “I'd like to know where this road is leading us, or what we're supposed to do here. Kill as much as we can and run back to the Hamlet? This area doesn't look unexplored. There's paths and broken branches, leftover food, and antivenom vials.”

Lovett folded the map, put it in his backpack. “Whatever it is, we can handle it.”

“You're hiding something from us.” Dismas’ eyes narrowed.  
There was no response right away. The man may as well have been a statue. “Let's move.”

The party followed the winding trail down steep hills and near sinister ravines, walking over roots like fingers in the ground. It was a blighted, deformed place to be in. And they were walking away from the beaten path. Lovett guided them with the map, stopping to consult it more often as the trees grew thinner around them. It wasn't as though the area was less corrupted––if anything, the opposite was true. The ground was smoother but blackened, cracked as roots seemed to have withered and retracted.

Dismas heard retching behind him and Alhazred was on his knees, back arched like a cat. He was grateful for the scarf when the smell hit him, the sensation like a punch to the stomach.  
He'd smelled corpses in his life––smelled poor sods hanging from gallows, boiling in the summer heat. This was similar, but sweeter, so much sweeter, and it made his head swim, vision doubling. Pierrepont had his mask over his nose and was breathing with his mouth, shoulders hunched.

Lovett just gestured for them to move.

They approached a trail: a path of broken branches and marks on the ground. The whole area was dry and cracked and darkened. The smell grew thicker still. Dismas noticed marks on the trees, deep horizontal cuts, and marks on the ground. The dirt crumbled between his fingertips when he went to examine it, and it looked freshly moved.  
His heart was thundering in his chest.

They'd seen the remnants of an old village among the strange trees, maybe the Hamlet itself, before it fell in abandonment and disrepair. But that was miles away now. The hut that stood in front of them was neither old nor dilapidated, and it was massive. Seemingly carved from the roots of some of the colossal trees, it was decorated with bone structures and strange symbols. And from just beyond it, in the clearing among the trees, there came a sound of grunting, metal on something soft; rhythmic, wet sounds.

Lovett led the way as they drew nearer to the hut. The door was bolted shut, and Dismas wouldn't have gone in if he'd been paid his weight in gold. That's where the smell came from, and it was so intense from up close his eyes were watering. Rot and flesh and filth and at that moment, his heart stopped.

There, brandishing a colossal meat tenderizer and cackling madly, was a gigantic, deformed woman. Her teeth were crooked, and her skin was covered in warts and boils. The stench emanated as much from her body as it did from the huge cauldron in front of her: towering well over a grown man's size. The boiling hot soup spilled over the sides from time to time, sizzling out on the burning hot metal. The creature, twisted in her humanoid form, that's all he could say of her––it, really––was folds upon folds upon folds of fat, and under the rolls of diseased skin and open sores, he could see maggots twisting and rolling and falling on the ground to be crushed as the hag moved. Behind her was a cutting board of sorts, and on it cloth and flesh and blood. The green of a bandit's outfit, what little meat on his bones having been carved off. The hag made noises that seemed halfway between gagging and laughing when the meat fell in the gigantic pot.

She sniffed the air like a dog then, stopped her mad cackling. Her head slowly turned towards them, and then she twisted her whole body mass in their direction. Eyes widening, a sound came from her lips that may have been words, or curses, or a squeal of joy, lips curling to reveal more and more of those long teeth, so long and sharpened and––

And before they could do anything, before they could even imagine what she'd do, she reached out. The Highwayman never thought a creature that large could move so quickly.

She was fast. Much too fast.

Lovett had dodged out of her reach, Pierrepont flanking her from the other side, moving with agile grace to evade the hand that came down among them. Dismas threw himself to the side, his heart pounding, knowing in some corner of his heart there was no way she wouldn't have reached the weakest among them. He saw Alhazred's head hit the floor, skull-with-candle rolling out of his hand as he scrambled to get up on his knees, dark eyes wide and wild with terror.

For a moment, their gazes met. Dismas reached out, feeling pressure around his legs, long nails on his calves. He opened his mouth to speak.

Then he hit the boiling hot water of the pot.

Everything went

red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this came out so late. I had a few hectic weeks. It should be under control now! By the way, originally it was good old Alhazred who got dunked in the pot of boiling water. Of course it was Alhazred. Nothing good ever happens to him.  
> Ehe.
> 
> Big thanks to my pal Salmonandsoup for beta-ing for me.


	16. Into the pot!

Dismas hit the boiling pot's contents feet-first, sinking to the hips, his coat spreading and moving like a living being over the liquid.  His mind went numb to everything––his body, the splashing around the pot, the hag’s cackling, and Alhazred's screaming. His head was blank of all but one thought––escape.

__

_ I need to get out.  _ **_I need to get out._ **

 

He reached out, finding that the pot was not as deep as it looked from the outside. He could hold onto it and pull himself up by the elbows. And as he reached out, gasping, sweat pouring from his face, blinded by the heat, he felt two strange sensations at once.  First, a feeling spread from his feet up to his legs and hips. Under the layers of clothing, he felt a great, maddening itch, like his skin was vibrating. He fought the insane urge to stick both arms under the liquid to scratch at his legs and stomach and chest.  Second, the bottom of the cauldron gave way under him. What he thought was solid metal started shifting, slipping along the real bottom of the pool, way below the layers of thick fat and herbs and flesh and bone. ( _ There were bones in the soup. Human bones. _ ) Everything moved slowly. His face started itching. Dismas' gloved fingers scrambled for purchase on the outer lip of the witch's cauldron, digging marks in the soot and grease, and then he was under.  And the itching turned to pain.

 

Dismas' world exploded in agony. Whatever rational part of him that knew it was a bad idea to scream while underwater fled somewhere far where he couldn't reach, and thick syrupy boiling liquid was in his nostrils, down his throat, in his stomach and lungs. He was burning from the inside out. His organs were burning. The Highwayman clawed at the sides of the pot, digging up grease and sticky remains of the others who'd been there before him, all coordination lost, his mind torn to shreds by the agony. His feet kicked the sides of the pot, trying to tip it, and he dimly felt that his boots were already starting to feel loose as his flesh began to come off in great chunks, the soup turning a deep red around him. He'd heard that in cases of great agony, the body passes out and the pain only comes later. Not this time. He wasn't that lucky.

He breathed great gasps of boiling soup and water as he came up, fingertips clinging to the surface. He saw dark fingers clinging to his gloved hand, heard someone screaming, “ _ Get him out, we need to get him out, why aren't you DOING anything—!?” _

 

Dismas' skin, hanging on to bone and muscle by shreds, peeled off inside the leather glove and he slipped and went down, watching the hand pull away with his skin. He heard himself screaming, and that was the last thing he did hear before his eardrums were burned clean out of his ears.

Dismas' blood was boiling, his stomach acids burning the lining away. The forest canopy looked pink through the soup before his eyes, too, boiled and burned. His tongue was swollen, flapping from side to side on loosened teeth, and still he could feel everything, and still he scrambled and kicked and screamed and screamed.  **_I have to get out of here get out of here get out out out out out out out_ **

 

When he was 10 years old, after teaching the younger brats at the orphanage how to swipe a purse, how to run and hide from angry stallholders, how to hunt for small game, he'd wander in a small grove by the riverside. Out there, away from the docks, you could fish if you had the patience for it, and set traps. That's when he saw the fox. It'd wandered under a deadfall trap, one of the big ones, and its legs were crushed. Dimly, he remembered one of the kids that were with him crying and looking away from the scene. There was blood on the leaves: not much, all things considered. There was a lot more on the fox's muzzle. He remembered thinking: It's eating itself. Back then, Dismas had thought the animal was just frenzied from pain and trying to speed up a death that kept eluding it.

Now, as he burned alive, cooked in his own fat, he realized it wasn't that at all. What he'd seen back then was survival at its most raw, its most painful. Tearing off its useless legs, eating itself, the fox was forcing itself to live moment by painful moment. 

He thought that might be called hope.

With a final, desperate effort, he swam from the bottom of the pot, hung off the side of its rounded lip, slipped, dug his burning fingertips in the greasy surface, and screamed in mad agony, a blind and deaf creature, and pulled himself up. At once, he felt lighter, and didn't think about how much flesh and muscle was left in the pot. About what had sloughed off of him as he fell towards the ground, brittle bones shattering on the packed dirt by the fire.

 

Lumps of flesh.

 

He thought:  _ Reynauld, my love. I hope they won't let you see me like this. _

 

And then:  _ I'm sorry. I tried. _

 

Finally, his heart- boiled in his own blood from the inside out- stopped, and Dismas drifted away.

 

 

 

**_B L E E D,  C H I L D_ **

 

That, at least, was what he thought the voice said. It wasn’t male nor female but both- thousands, millions of voices overlaid, all speaking, all screaming. He thought what they said was  **_«bleed, child»_ ** but what he heard was a little different.

He saw darkness shining from beyond his blind, burned eyeballs, and it was a depth of black nothingness so bright it made his ears hurt and his bones vibrate and shatter even thought he was long dead already, a million years ago and at the same time. His mind was splintering and cracking, and so were the voices, and he heard calling and singing and screaming and fighting—and it was calm and quiet and so silent and so bleed child, bleed bleed bleed  **give us blood give us life give us energy love slave bastard we'll drag you and take you and you'll scream and sing and dance and hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt and** **_hurt and hurt and hurt and sing bleed die bleed die feed us die die die die die die die die die die die_ **

**_snuff_ **

**_out_ **

**_the_ **

**_Light,_ **

**_child_ **

 

Dismas screamed.

 

-x-

 

A warm hand, blood pulsating out from a wounded wrist. Life force seeping over a skull, blue flame dancing in the dark, the bone vessel purifying and feeding and satisfying before dripping on the mound of boiled flesh that had once been Dismas the Highwayman. His head was under the skull which was under the Occultist's hand, the Occultist who was screaming, eyes blazing with fury and barely concealed terror, the other hand on the hilt of the curved blade at his side, extended between him and the two men, Lovett the silent mountain, running a whetstone over the broken sword, and Pierrepont his virtual opposite, rummaging the Hag's corpse for trinkets and spell ingredients.

“You knew. You  _ knew _ !” Alhazred spat out at them, and the emotion in his voice almost drowned the words under his thick accent.

“Well, of course.  Lovett has a map.” Pierrepont shrugged.

“You knew about the witch! Did you plan for this? Did you plan to leave Dismas to die?”

The silence stretched on and on.

“I respect your willpower, and so I will not lie to you, Arab. It wasn't him we planned on leaving behind.” 

Alhazred bit his lip, raised the blade higher. It was still dripping his own blood. Under his hand, Dismas' corpse began to stir. Something was moving under his skin. Pierrepont, out of some well-honed instinct of self-preservation, took a step back. 

Good.

“Understood. Leave the cripple to die, eh?” A sneer twisted the Occultist's lips, and his eyes rolled back for a moment. His focus was slipping.

“Pretty much.” Pierrepont nodded airily.

“Pierre. Go see if the coast is clear,” Lovett ordered, took a step towards Alhazred.

“I won't hurt you. Put down the knife.”

“But I will hurt you. You don't know what you're dealing with, Leper. But we can come back all alive if you—”

“You are in no position to make demands.  I'm dealing with a man who can't walk in this swamp, clinging to a corpse. Leave it behind, Alhazred, and come back.” Lovett's arms were raised in a pacifying gesture, but his size and gaze made him menacing nonetheless.

“Do you do this often? Use people as bait? Is that why so few of your companions come back?!”

Lovett shrugged. “We do what we must do. Pierre believes in survival at the cost of sacrifice, and i agree with him. Sometimes, the sacrifice is someone else's. Sometimes it's our own.”

“Oh, and I'm sure the fact you'll be splitting rewards by two instead of four doesn't have anything to do with this?” Alhazre snarled and spat on the ground at Lovett's feet. The giant didn't react.

“One day you'll understand.” Lovett extended a hand towards the knife.  “Let's go home, Alhazred. Nobody needs to know.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Editor's note: Dismas fucking dies. How fun, everyone. Love, Madelyn.  
> Author's note: I AM SORRY I AM SO LATE I LOVE YOUR MESSAGES I SHALL RESPOND SHORTLY


	17. Memories of Sana'a

_Dismas was… Somewhere._  
_Somewhere warm and soft and far away, the only sound a soft vibration._  
_Somewhere safe._

White framed clay buildings as far as the eye could see stood under a startlingly blue sky, and the streets were full of people in colorful clothing. Dismas had never left his home country, with its gray sky and cold humidity, the smell of saltwater that seeped in the clothes and skin. All of this felt bone dry in comparison in that strange place. His body moved on its own, free from the tug and tension of scarred skin and malnutrition. He walked in the middle of the road and was greeted warmly by shop owners instead of looked at with suspicion. Someone was at his side, somewhat struggling to keep his brisk pace, and the words falling out of Dismas’ mouth were not his own, not in his language––yet he could understand every word. A small flood of knowledge hit him, and Dismas found he knew who the voice belonged to––soft and somewhat nasal, so different without accent.

This, Dismas realized, was Alhazred’s home: a bright and warm and colorful place, so different from the drab gray of the Hamlet. He was in was his body, and those were his memories. Surrounded by strange folk in a strange place, feeling disarmed and yet fascinated, Dismas wondered if that was how the Occultist felt at all time, all the way in England.

The man at his side was chattering, a whirlwind of jokes and comments and little jabs at everyone around them. He was short, overweight and with an unkept beard, bright eyes and an even brighter smile, somehow not ruined by the many missing teeth. He wore a western style suit under the silk robes, similar to what Alhazred wore in the Hamlet, and carried several books under one arm. There was a feeling of closeness to how they walked together, the occasional brush of the Occultist’s hand over the man’s shoulder, his arm. The way Ahazred’s heart seemed to skip a beat whenever his disarming smile turned his way.

In a blink, he was somewhere else, inside one of the clay homes, the night sky outside quiet and clear. Back in London, Dismas had lived in the city’s night, it had been his whole world. It clearly wasn’t Alhazred’s, if his yawning was any indication. He was working on a large tome, lit by candlelight, hunched over and close to the paper. He wrote, stopped to stretch his hand, went back to writing. A sweet, flowery smell hung in the air, making Dismas’ head spin a little.

Sprawled on some pillows by his side, the shorter man was smoking an opium pipe, seemingly the only thing beside sleep that would stop his chattering for a time. “Quit studying and c’mere,” he mumbled. Alhazred ignored him, still copying text from a roll of parchment onto the decorated tome. Dismas was almost too distracted by the ink slowly drying on the paper to realize he could _understand_ what was written on it.  
Underwhelmingly, it was a travel guide of sorts for somewhere in the Egyptian desert. Dismas read, really read, the careful measurements written in curling script, and immediately lost interest.

“Alhaaaazred.”

“The professor entrusted me this job, Hallé, and I won’t let him down. Especially not to get high with you.” He dipped the quill in ink, dried the excess on the side of the bottle and went back to writing, eyes darting from the parchment to the book. “I might be in the Gathering someday. I won’t ruin my chances just because you want to cuddle.” His irritated tone did soften on the last few words.

“Later then?” Hallé said, sounding like he was already dozing off.

“Fine. Just a little. Now let me work.”

And for a time, he did quiet down, the only sound his puffs on the pipe and the scratching of the quill on paper, the night of the city outside. “Al... ” Hallé said then.

Alhazred gave an exasperated sigh. This time, he just left the quill in the bottle, and turned to face the other man who was curled up like a cat on his side, bloodshot eyes looking up at him with great curiosity.

“What’s the Gathering?”

-

Alhazred raised his hands to the ceiling and began chanting, the words coming out alien from his mouth, a jarring sound that could only be described as wrong. The words were wrong, the sound was wrong, nothing of it sounded like something that should be coming from a human, the sounds too bunched together, too weird and off by all means, and by the time the other members of the Gathering joined in, Dismas’ and Alhazred’s heads both were spinning from vertigo and oxygen deprivation, but it was as if a force had taken over Alhazred’s body and he couldn’t stop.

It came from all around the chamber, packed full of robed men standing on the edges of a symbol etched on the floor. A dark fluid had been poured in the canals formed by it and when the man inside the circle raised his hand, the fluid caught fire, illuminating the room. Alhazred led the chorus, guiding the other men in a crescendo until their voices started to die off one after the other. In the silence that followed, the man in the circle spoke.

"Tonight we welcome a new brother to the Gathering. Now until time makes us food for the worms, he vows to protect the words of the ancients and the knowledge of our Masters." A confused muttering spread across the room, and Alhazred's heart sped up when the man walked in the circle, flames parting for a moment. Even with the hood and robe on, the way he moved was unmistakable, melodrama completely recognizable as he removed the ornate, curved knife from his belt. Hallé extended his hand towards the blade, barely flinching when blood ran from the wound on his palm, fizzling off on the flame pit carved at the center of the circle. Then, he raised his bloodied fist in the air, and as the chanting resumed, his eyes met with Alhazred's, and he grinned ear to ear.

-

"I didn't know." Alhazred said almost meekly. They were in what Dismas assumed was his house, a place full of books in various states of transcription and cataloguing, with small items and statues everywhere, all carefully labeled. The Occultist fidgeted a little, drumming his fingers on his knees as he watched Hallé prepare his pipe. He grinned a wide, sly grin, even as he struggled to work with his wounded hand.

  
"I wanted to surprise you. I've been studying a long time for this,” Hallé said.

  
"The Gathering will be uplifted by having you in it."

"With the two of us both in it, the occult will have no more secrets soon." With this, Hallé drew closer, cupped Alhazred’s face in his hands and kissed him. It was just for a moment, a delicate press of the lips, but it made the Occultist’s heart race with thunderous pounds. Before he knew it, his arms were around the shorter man, face buried in the crook of his neck, eyes shut against the flood of emotions. Hallé chuckled softly, running a hand on his back and holding him tight to his chest.

Dismas wondered for how many years Alhazred had been waiting for that kiss.

-

The following months saw a lot of the Gathering’s work, but without context, Dismas had no way to understand why they did what they did. The memories were random, scraps and scenes sometimes only handfuls of seconds long. What he could tell was that there were many of them. Alhazred’s eyes would scan the crowd in the streets and fall on someone that had been marked by the Gathering. Some wore certain gold accessories, often flat necklaces with inscribed occult symbols. Some, like Alhazred, wore leather braces to hide the scars from the bloodletting that opened most Gathering meetings. Some had tattoos, and that’s the route Hallé went for, showing up at a meeting with half his face swollen, ink still dripping from his mark- the alchemic symbol for sulphur, starting on his cheek and crossing over his eye. Alhazred yelled at him for that, but not for long, disarmed by his goofy toothless smile.

What the Gathering was about was really something of a strange study group. They’d collect and examine tomes from all parts of Arabia, holding them in the underground stone chamber they met and held rituals in. Although the elders of the group were knowledgeable, it struck Dismas how little they seemed to have planned, how many of their rituals were reconstructed from old tomes, a lot of which transcribed by Alhazred himself. The Gathering of Sana’a, it seemed, was younger than its brother groups in other countries, years behind and running to catch up, without the generations’ worth of knowledge of the gatherings of al-Qāhirah, of Amman.

While Alhazred paced himself, constant and orderly, Hallé dove headfirst in the Gathering’s work. When he was studying alongside his lover, he was completely engrossed in it, forgetting to eat and sleep and jotting down notes almost as fast as he read. He’d be up for days and collapse when his body reached its limit, only to wake up and do it all over again. Alhazred made time every day to make sure he ate regularly at least, something made easier as they started sharing the same home. Now, Hallé’s breaks weren’t only his increasingly frequent opium trips, but the time they spent in bed together. Dismas tore himself from those memories, but was still left with a warm feeling, the sensation of being safe and healthy and happy, even if he was only a passenger in someone’s past. Somehow, it made him feel less guilty over Alhazred’s present knowing he’d felt this happiness––for the short time it lasted.

_The sensation started out soft and distant, a vibration enveloping Dismas. It kept growing and growing, and what had started out pleasant was more like a great itch at the core of his bones, growing and ebbing away with the sound of his heartbeat. He couldn’t scratch it, couldn’t move at all, and it was driving him insane. Dismas couldn’t scream or even cry as his skin, his organs, his very soul felt so itchy he would’ve torn himself to shreds with nail and tooth just to get it out if he could’ve. All he could do was struggle fruitlessly, and when even that wouldn’t distract him, when he thought he would dissolve under that feeling, another memory touched his mind and he was gone, diving in without a second thought._

Hallé’s eyes were wild and shining with an almost savage energy, and his grip over Alhazred’ shoulders was painful. He shook him at first, let go, paced the room and came back right up to him, wild and grinning ear to ear in excitement. Alhazred had been making tea whe he burst in, and the cup still sat on the table, forgotten. “I found it, Alhazred. The sign I was looking for. It was in one of the scrolls, I went over it and didn’t see but I saw it now, and I know.”

The fellow Occultist couldn’t get a word in Hallé’s incoherent ramblings. He could just wait it out like he had many times, except this time the burst of energy was so much intense than it had ever been. “Slow down, for mercy’s sake! What are you talking about?”

This time, the shorter man took his hands, drew them to his chest and kissed the palms, a gesture that was so familiar and still made his heart flutter, even after all that time. “I’ll tell you. You must trust me now, but when I come back, you’ll know everything, I promise.”

“Wait, you’re leaving? When?” Dismas could hear the hurt and confusion in Alhazred’s voice. Hallé did, too, stopping his frantic pacing and throwing his arms, soft and warm as they’d always been, around his lover’s neck, holding him close for just a moment.

“You’ll be so proud of me, Al. I’ll make you happy. You just need to trust me on this. Please, trust me one last time.” he kissed him again, turned and was at the door in a few steps.

“Hallé, wait-" his voice was weak.

“I can’t. The caravan’s leaving. I have to get to egypt, and the road’s long.”

Alhazred pressed the palms of his hands, still warm from the kisses, against his heart. “...stay for tea?” He sounded so insecure. It was just a moment of his masks slipping, and Dismas couldn’t name the emotion that flashed across Hallé’s tattooed face.

“When I come back. I love you.”

“I love you too…” Alhazred replied, but he was already gone, the doorway empty.

Hallé never came back.

As the days stretched into months and years, Alhazred changed. Dismas ran through the memories like someone flipping a book, watching him grow older and bitter, closer to the aloof man he knew. Now an esteemed professor of western literature, he was a very different man from the one Dismas had seen in earlier memories. But no matter how much he and the world around him changed, one thing stayed the same: he never gave up on Hallé. Every time a caravan would come, he would be there to ask for him. He would forgo chances to travel and see the world, He didn’t move even when his house was overrun with books and tomes it was too small to contain, the same tomes he ran through every night, desperate for signs of what had sparked Hallé’s passion. More often than not he’d fall asleep with his head over his arms at the table, still surrounded by ancient occult texts. He burned himself out like a candle over and over again, running his mind and body ragged as the house he shared with his love got colder and the flowery scent of opium faded from the pillows they’d spent so many hours embracing on.

And then he found it. Bitter laughter erupted from his lips as he recognized the hand on the tome that had damned Hallé––he’d been the one to transcribe that. Who knows what in the spiraling ink marks on the paper had caught his attention, but now that he was really looking, it did have… something to it. “I need the original of this.” he whispered, running his fingers over the drawing on the page, an idol of a tentacle, twisted in the shape of a red hook.

  
_With a flash of red, the memory was gone, the itching was gone, torn aside and replaced with something darker. He felt like he’d been dipped in boiling oil, and would’ve screamed himself into insanity if he still had a body. The pain was excruciating. Every cell, every atom of Dismas was in pain, a pain too great to think about, too great to even focus on, an agony so intense his mind couldn’t, wouldn’t, perceive all of it. It still felt like being strapped to a burning comet, and when the next memory came, after what felt like years of torture, he could’ve cried with gratitude._

  
The man answering the door was disheveled, rubbing his eyes. “Alhazred? It’s the middle of the night.”

“I’m sorry, Professor. I need your help,” Alhazred said, desperate. Though time had taken its toll, Dismas could recognize the older man as the Gathering master and another professor at the university. He watched from a distance as Alhazred tore into the ancient tomes in the Gathering chamber, scanning them at lightning speed until finally, finally, he clutched the original drawing in his hands, the red tinted tentacle idol. His breathing was shallow as even in the dim light from the torches that lined the chamber, he could see what he’d missed, what Hallé had to have seen before anyone else. The cipher under the delicate ink on the paper. Only barely visible to the naked eye, his heart beat louder as he crouched by one of the torches, running his finger to follow the text, mouthing the words.

The light flickered. Alhazred grinned from ear to ear.

“Have you found what you were looking for?” the professor suppressed a yawn.

“Certainly. Sir…” he spoke slowly, measuring his words. “you were kind enough to let me in your home at this time. Let me at least make tea to thank you.”

The cup warmed his fingertips, a little unpleasant in the already hot summer night. The professor looked sleepy and confused, but didn’t seem to mind Alhazred’s intrusion too much. That was bound to happen from time to time, with the Gathering chamber being directly below his home. “You know…” he said after a few minutes. “it’s not my place to say, but it might be time to let go of your friend.”

Alhazred took a sip of tea. “He has been gone a long time.” he said, his voice even.

“He was always very curious of the world. He probably got bored of Sana’a and moved somewhere with more opportunities.”

“That would make sense.” they finished their tea mostly talking about work, and Alhazred got up to put the cups away.

“You know, he’s probably in an opium den somewhere. He was always that kind of man.”

Alhazred smiled, and for a split second, Dismas remembered the instructions he’d seen hidden in the marks of the paper.

1.) The skull of the master

He felt the knife’s handle against his hand before he saw what his host was doing. Alhazred’s body was weak, but he had surprise on his side, and the Professor was unarmed. The blade sunk in his neck and the Occultist shut his eyes against the spray of blad as he sliced through the carotid, dark red liquid pulsing out in waves at the rythm of a desperate heartbeat. The man was still struggling, nails dragging in the ground, when the blade got lodged in his trachea. Alhazred left him to find a carving knife and resumed the work, cleaning and sheathing his ceremonial blade. He worked the skull loose with both arms, watching the body twitch and go still when the neck snapped, severing the last nerves.  
He stripped and cleaned himself, taking some of the Professor’s old clothes, his turban and suit from when he was younger. Then he cleaned the man’s head, stuffed the neck with sand and wrapped it in layers of cloth, all of it stuffed in a leather bag with the tome the instructions were from.

There was plenty of time to study the book once he was on the caravan, watching Sana’a grow smaller and smaller. Dismas followed his travels, watching the cities through his eyes, the Red sea and the port of Djibouti and the interminable array of boat and caravan rides to al-Qāhirah, and then the endless sands of the egyptian desert.

  
2.) Reach the temple of Gn'th’r s'uhn

Sick with sleep deprivation and dehydration, it was as though the temple wanted to be hidden, only revealing its colossal pillars when Alhazred was on death’s door, everything around him turned hazy by the sandstorm and his own dry eyes. He stumbled inside, falling on his knees, dragging himself back up, vomiting bile on the front of his suit. He’d run himself ragged, and still forced himself to go on, stumbling down stone stairs so large they had to have been built for a giant, worn smooth by sand and age. His eyes couldn’t seem to get used to the dark, but he saw the idol before they registered it, standing on a carved pillar.

_It hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts It **hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts It hurts it hurts it hurts so much––**_

The chamber was almost free of sand, surprisingly small. He placed the tome by the pillar’s base, looking for the inked illustration he’d almost memorized and its hidden instructions.  
Something crunched under his knees and he screamed, jumping out of the way. It wasn’t cockroaches, though––it was bones, made brittle and bleached by time. His heart thundering in his chest, he rummaged the satchel for a spare candle. The flame flickered over the walls, casting eerie shadows over the carvings- looking something like people having been trapped in the stone, struggling to escape. The ground was littered with corpses, and about twice as many skulls as there should have been. In the silence, undisturbed for so long, he began to shuffle around the room, lowering the candlelight to the height of the corpses curled up on the ground, mummified by the complete lack of humidity.

He felt the bones crunch when his knees gave way underneath him, felt his dry and flaking lips when he raised a hand to stifle a scream. The dry climate had kept the dead man’s corpse well enough to preserve the skin, papery and stuck to the bone, but still intact enough to recognize the tattoo- the alchemic symbol of sulphur across his left eye. He’d died with his back against the wall, clutching a skull in his hands. The candle glued on top, as per the tome’s instructions, was snuffed out, little more than an inch of wick in the middle of a glob of wax. Choked sobs were the only sound in the ancient chamber until he could control himself. His hands shook.

Hallé had died alone, millions of miles away from home.

Alhazred walked towards the tentacle idol in the center of the room, retrieving the Professor’s skull from his satchel.

3.) Bleed

Every Gathering started with a bloodletting, and as a devout Occultist, Alhazred’s wrists were covered in scars. He was used to the pain as he sliced vertically through the skin, watching drops falling on the idol.

It glowed.

The voice was the loudest thing he’ ever heard, louder than a cannonball to the skull. It spoke in twisting words of a language he couldn’t understand, a presence vibrating with terrifying energy. Alhazred dropped on his knees, shaking, got back up and pressed his wrist against the idol, slathering it in blood with the last of his strength. It glowed brighter, and it burned like hellfire, but his flesh didn’t crumble and crisp. The voice was so loud, and it was tearing him to shreds, tearing his mind and body and soul apart like it had with Hallé.

Unlike Hallé, however, Alhazred survived.

Standing alone in the chamber, clutching the skull-with-candle, the testament to his pact and his lifeline. The white candle on top had fused completely to the skull, hard as stone. Still, as he watched the flames dance, a drop of wax melted and dripped off the side––his life, burning away with the magic.

Under the pain, something was coming. Something great and terrifying, something timeless. He thought: it knows i’m here. He thought: i’ve always been here. Always always always.

He thought: I’m not alone.

 

**T H E     B A R G A I N      I S      S T R U C K.**

 

He could hear something. Not with his mind, but with his actual ears, he could hear a soft voice humming near him, a wordless lullaby. He could breathe. He could move again, albeit slowly, sore and wounded.

He was alive. His head was resting on something soft, and after a time he realized he had his head on Alhazred’s lap, the Occultist’s long fingers running through his hair, caressing him like a mother would a child. He was singing to him like that, and for some reason Dismas didn’t want to break the spell by moving just yet. Instead, he muttered the first thing that came to his mind.  
“london bridge is falling down… falling down…” he muttered, face pressed against Alhazred’s belt. He felt, rather than heard, his gasp, and suddenly he was being hugged with a fierce energy that made his wounds hurt. He hugged him back as best he could, realizing only then how badly he was shaking. His mind flashed back to the cauldron, to the pain and fear and despair, and he wasn’t smiling anymore, he was sobbing and shaking against the front of the Occultist’s shirt.

The area around them was a mess of blood and thick globs of meat and bone from the spilled cauldron. The Hag’s corpse was sprawled near the hut, the stink of death making the air thick and hard to breathe. They moved slowly, gathering what could be useful from the area. There was food in the hut, but most of it was moldy and rotten. Alhazred looked exhausted, with deep bags under his eyes, but didn’t complain once about the work. Exhaustion and pain also kept Dismas from thinking too hard about what happened, so he could focus on the task at hand. He shut his brain to all stimuli but what was right in front of him, the mechanical act of sweeping the area, gathering tools and cloth for bandages and trinkets the Heiress might find useful. He didn’t ask what had been of Lovett and Pierrepont: he was cynical enough to connect the Hag’s corpse, cleft in half by the Leper’s giant sword, and the fact that the cripple of the group had been left alone in a dangerous place with his corpse.

It wasn’t hard to imagine that splitting the payment in two was a better choice than dividing by three after having to lug around a grief-stricken Occultist all the way back to the Hamlet. And the Hamlet was very far away.

Dismas saw a hint of despair in Alhazred’s tired eyes at the idea of the long trek back with almost no supplies, with torches made of soggy wood and cloth giving off little to no light. He wrapped an arm around the Occultist’s shoulders, squeezing him lightly, and he returned a weak smile.

“Let’s go. We have someone waiting for us back to the Hamlet.”

“Yes. Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good evening! A new chapter is here. I'm amazed at myself that i managed to finish it at all, considering i wrote it mostly on my phone during the commute to and from one of my two jobs, all the while wrestling with paroxetine withdrawal and all its associated... Quirks.  
> Assorted chapter commentary:  
> \- The alchemic symbol for sulphur looks remarkably like a dick, so it's no wonder that Alhazred was mad at Hallé for getting it on his eye.  
> \- The University of Sana'a was founded il the 70s, but the Occultist mentions both going to a liberal arts college and being a tenured professor, and i wanted the chapter to take place in Yemen, so a little anachronism was in order.  
> \- Hallé was my champion Occultist, the only character in the story aside from Dismas and Reynauld to actually have existed in my Hamlet, and died to the Necromancer Lord. He will be missed.  
> \- You can research everything on the internet, down to things like, for example, the exact smell that opium has. It smells like flowers because it's made from poppies. Makes sense.  
> \- I REALLY need to write some boning in the next chapters.  
> \- I actually have a ko-fi page if you want to drop me a couple of bucks. https://ko-fi.com/blatta think of it as my virtual offering dish.
> 
>  
> 
> As always, a big thanks to Salmonandsoup (you can find her works both here and on tumblr) for working her magic on my raw text.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a fun fact: this fanfiction is, as of now, over 120 pages long, and still being written.  
> It takes me longer to edit and clean up a chapter than it does to write it, probably, which is why i'm only sharing it now.  
> Comments/kudos are very much appreciated.


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